nvofi 


UC-NRLF 


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B    3    3M5 


THE  TENTS  OF  TROUBLE 


THE 
TENTS  OF  TROUBLE 

BY 

DAMON   RUNYON 

(Ballads  of  the  Wanderbund,  and  Other  Verse) 


NEW  YORK 

DESMOND  FITZGERALD,  INC. 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1911 
BY  DESMOND  FITZGERALD,  INC. 

All  Rights  Reserved 


To 

Hamish  Loughlin  McLaurin, 
and   other   world  wanderers. 


251151 


The  author  is  indebted  for  the  reproduction  of  verse 
included  in  this  volume  to  Harper's  Weekly,  Harper's 
Monthly,  the  Century  Magazine,  Success,  Collier's, 
Appleton's,  Lippincott's,  Smart  Set,  the  Bohemian,  Ameri 
can  Magazine,  Munsey's,  Leslie's  Monthly,  New  York 
Telegraph,  New  York  Sun,  New  York  American,  Army 
and  Navy  Journal,  Spare  Moments,  the  People's  Maga 
zine,  Denver  News,  Denver  Post,  and  the  New  York  World. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

BALLADS  OF  THE  WANDERBUND 

Ballad  of  the  Big  Town 13 

Ghosts  of  the  Great  White  Way 17 

The  Spirit  of  You 19 

"Pal" — Algeria,    1910          21 

Song  of  the   Strike-Breakers 25 

Ballad  of  Lonely  Graves 29 

Brothers-By-Oath 30 

The  Army  of  God-Knows-Where 33 

The  "  Has-Been " 36 

Song    of    King    Barleycorn          41 

Song  of  the  Steel  Worker 42 

For  the   Cry  of  a  Little  Child 44 

BALLADS  OF  A  BEACH  COMBER 

Who   Goes  This   Way?        47 

Roses  of  a  Dream 48 

The   Gods  of  Yesterday 50 

The   Song  of   Silence 53 

Dream  of  a  Drowsy  Day 55 

The   Consoler         58 

The   Isle  o'   Sweet   Content 60 

When  the  Ships  Go   Home 62 

The  King  of  Moo 63 

"Ghosts"           65 

The    Prince    Consort         66 

SONGS  OF  THE  SERVICE 

"Taking  On" 69 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Song  of  the  Bullet 7* 

Outpost,  4.   a.  m 74 

Ladies   in   the   Trenches T6 

Bugle  Calls 79 

The  Cavalry •      • 

The  Filipino  Scout 84 

"Hikin"' 

Ballad  of  the  Test  Ride       ......•••• 

Wage  of  the  Fighting  Men       ........  9° 

Song  of  the  Saddle      ......•••••  92 

The  Sky  Marines 94 

The   Glory   of  War         ........  96 

Practice  Marching 99 

"  August  12,  '98" 

To  Those  Who  Stay 104 

BALLADS  OF  THE  BRAKE  BEAMS 

A  Song  of  the  Rails        ..........  IO7 

The  Softest  Town II0 

ON  DISTANT  SHORES 

The  Voice   From   Home        .........  IJ5 

"Stars  and  Stripes  Forever" Il8 

Toots  McGann 120 

The  Yellow  Flag .  123 

Ghosts   of   the  Ditch I27 

Homeward  Bound I3r 


BALLADS    OF   THE   WANDERBUND 


THE   BALLAD    OF    THE   BIG    TOWN 

NOW  I've  gone  out  as  a  wanderer;  as  a  man  o'  th' 
Where-You-Wills; 
An'   I've  planted  our  flag  in  vale,  on  crag,  an'  over  a 

thousand   hills. 

My  blood  flows  hot  as  lava,  an'  it  leaps  to  th'  Spring 
time's  call; 
(For  I  must  go  in  th'  Springtime,  an'  I'm  due  back  in 

th'  Fall.) 
But  I'm  sick  o'  th'  wastes  o'  water;  an'  I'm  sick  o'  th' 

swreepin'  plain ; 
I'm  tired  o'  th'  snow  an'  th'  windy  blow  an'  th'  peck 

o'  th'  fretful  rain. 
Oh,   I'm  sick  o'   th'   whole   dam   Open,   an'   th'   Forest 

gives  me  a  chill  — 

I'm  yearnin'  to-night  for  ole  New  York; 
Whang  o'  th'  music  an'  pop  o'  th'  cork; 
(Sick  o'  a  ration  o'  maggoty  pork — ) 
An'  sore  on  th'  blasted  drill! 

Now  I've  camped   in   the  World's  far  plazas,   an'   I've 

fought  at  th'  ends  o'  th'  Earth; 
I've  fought  an'  won  from  sun  to  sun  an'  learned  what 

a   friendship's   worth. 
I've  gasped  in  the  heat  o'  th'  Congo,  an'  froze  on'  th' 

bergs  o'   Svork  — 

13 


THE    BALLAD     QF     THE    BIG     TOWN 

An'   my   constant   dream   is   th'   diamond   gleam   o'    th' 

lights  that  light  New  York. 
For  I   ache  with  th'   mountain  scenery,  an'   I've  stared 

at  th'  wide-eyed  sky 
'Til  I'm  blue  o'  hide  an'  blue  inside  an'  feelin'  I'd  like 

to  cry. 
Oh,  I've  carried  th'  Gospel  an'  rifle  an'  I've  traveled  in 

trails  w'ich   aint  — 

An'   I'm  yearnin'  to-night  for  th'  Broadway  mess; 
Sight  o'  th'  bloods  in  evenin'  dress  — 
Clink  o'  th'  glass  —  an'  a  drink  —  I  guess  — 
An'  th'  stink  o'  perfume  an'  paint! 

I've  been   in   a   Sultan's   harem;   I   sabered   me  way  to 

his  pearls, 
But  I  wouldn't  trade  th'  best  they've  made  for  th'  least 

o'  our  chorus  girls. 
I've  hopped  to  a  tom-tom's  clatter,  an'  I've  shied  at  the 

hula   prance, 
But  th'  pulse  don't  beat  in  me  willin'  feet  as  she  does  to 

a   Bowery   dance. 
For  I've  slept  with  a  plague  o'  cholera  —  an'  worse,  with 

a  Borny  chief; 
From    th'    Arctic   Zone    to    th'    Patagone    I've    toted    a 

clammy  grief. 
I've    found    where    th'    Four    Winds    council,    an'    I've 

chinned  now  an'  then  with  Death  — 
But  I'm  wishin'  to-night  to  laugh  an'  sing; 
14 


THE    BALLAD     OF     THE    BIG     TOWN 

For  th'  city's  roar  an'  th'  music's  ring  — 
(Rustle  o'  skirts  an'  an  ole  time  fling — ) 

An'  a  chance  for  an'  easy  breath. 
I've  lighted   my  fires   at  evenin'   'neath   stars  you   never 

have  seen  — 
I've  tarried  whiles  on  vacant  isles,   an'   th'   waves  that 

whip  between. 
But   whether   I    sweat   on    th'    Congo,   or   freeze    on   th' 

bergs  o'   Svork — 
I   dream  at  night,  o'   th'  arch  o'  light  that  swings  over 

Home — New  York! 
For  I've  hung  my  warsh   in  a  Temple,  an'   I've  eaten 

a  Sacred  Cow  — 

Oh,  I  own  nine  lives  an'  fourteen  wives   (but  none  o' 
them's  with  me  now  — 

Thank  Gawd!) 
An'  there's  thousands  o'  miles  between  me  an'  th'  shores 

o'  th'  only  town; 

An'  I'm  dreamin'  to-night  by  th'  camp  fire  dim; 
(Sick  o'  th'  Trail  an'   th'  Weather's  whim;) 
An'  I'd  take  a  chance  at  a  distance  swim 
If  I  knew  dam  well  I'd  drown! 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  THE  GREAT  WHITE  WAY 

HAVE  you  heard  o'   the   Ghosts  o'   Broadway,   the 
jinks  o'  the  Dream  Defile? 
The  Red-Eyed  Ghost,  an'  the  White-Lipped  Ghost,  an' 

the  Ghost  wit'  the  good,  glad  smile? 
When  the  ice  in  the  wine-can  churns  a  tune,   an'   the 

glasses  skate  on  the  trays 
Them  Ghosts  come  out  o'  their  hives  an'  set  an'  yarn 

in  the  gilt  cafays. 
When  the  lights  paint  faces  o'  daylight-gloom  to  a  night- 

time-natured  glow 
They'll  tell  you  tales  w'ich  are  old  as  sin  —  that's  the 

oldest  gag  we  know. 

FIRST   GHOST 

"I'm  the  Ghost  o'  the  Wine  that  flows  each  night  in  a 
mellow  stream  to  Hell;  " 

SECOND  GHOST 

"  I'm  the  Ghost  o    the  Woman  who  knows  some  things 
she  never  will  dare  to  tell — " 

THIRD    GHOST 

"Well  well!  — 

I'm  the  Ghost  o'  the  Song  that  rafts  you  along  wit'  a 
liltin,  tiltin    lay  —" 

16 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  THE  GREAT  WHITE  WAY 

ALL   THREE 

"  Ho,  we're  the  Ghosts  o'  the  Game  an    Ghosts  you  must 
tame  when  you  play  on  the  Big  White  Way!" 

Sure!     You've  met  wit'   the   Ghosts  o'    Broadway;   the 

ha'nts  o'  the  Path  o'  the  Wise; 
Wit'  the  lint  o'  the  pillow  still  stuck  in  their  hair,  an'  a 

bath-room  look  in  their  eyes. 
When  the  lights  are  splashin'  the  taxi-trails  an'  the  skirts 

raise  a  perfumed  breeze 
They  set  in  the  snares  wit'  the  whirlin'  doors  an'  yarn 

at  their  graveyard   ease. 
An'  the  low-neck  squadrons  pass  in  review  an'  hear  the 

tales   for   awhile 
O'   the   Wine,   an'   the  Woman,   an'   bright-faced    Song, 

that   drools  wit'   a   good,    glad   smile. 

FIRST   GHOST 

"I'm  the.  Ghost  o'  the  Wine  that  brings  the  aches  in  the 
dawn  o'  the  day  to  come; " 

SECOND  GHOST 

"I'm   the   Ghost  o'   the   Woman   who  soothes  the  brow 
when   it  throbs  like  a  beatin    drum; " 

THIRD    GHOST 

"I'm  the  Ghost  o'  the  Song  that  drowns  the  wrong  an' 
makes  the  heart  tunk  gay  — 
17 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  THE  GREAT  WHITE  WAY 

ALL    THREE 

ff  Ho,  we'll  drink  an    sing  to  the  joyful  ring  o'  the  bells 
on  the  Big  White  Way!  " 

So  here's  to  the  Ghosts  o'  Broadway;  where  the  old  bull 

.fiddle  snorts  — 
The  White-Lipped   Ghost  wit'   her  bad,  sad  smile,   an' 

both  o'  her  fellow  sports; 
When  the  music  two-steps  the  hand  to  the  purse  an'  the 

carbonized  grape-juice  flies 
Let's  'drink  to  the  health  o'  the  Broadway  Ghosts,  an' 

the  tomb  where  their  history  lies. 
Oh,   the  world   is  troubled   enough   by  woe,   an'   there's 

light  on  the  Dream  Defile — 
So  here's  to  the  Red-Eyed,  White-Lipped  Ghosts  —  an' 

the  one  wit'  the  good,  glad  smile. 

FIRST    GHOST 

"  Here's  to   the   Woman  who  soothes  the  brow  an'  lays 

our  fears  an    frets — " 

SECOND  GHOST 
"  Here's  to  the  Wine  that  lightens  the  tongue  an   softens 

the    old   regrets  — " 

THIRD    GHOST 

"An    Song  salutes   the  new  recruits  that   come   to   our 
crowd  each  day  — " 

ALL   THREE 

"  Well!  Well!   We  rattle   our  bones  on  the  Broadway 
stones  at  night  on  the  Big  White  Way!" 

18 


"THE    SPIRIT    OF    YOU" 

McSWEAL,  of  the  Battery,  private;  with  a  wound 
that  he  couldn't  survive. 
("  Press   hard   on    the   blood-flow,    doctor;    we'll    try   to 

keep  him  alive.") 
McSweal,    of    the    Battery,    speaking  —  to    a   locket    set 

turquoise  blue  — 

"  No  chaplain  to  see  me  departing?     Well,  I'll  pray  to 
the  Spirit  of  You. 

"  I've  groped  as  a  child   in  the  darkness,  when  it  feels 

for  its  mother's  breast; 
I've  cried  for  a  nameless  something,   and   sought   for  a 

lighter    rest ; 

I've  listened  in  blackest  silence  in  hope  of  a  voice  I  knew, 
And  I  turn  from  a  hopeless  praying  to  pray  to  the  Spirit 

of  You. 


1  'T  is  an   old,   old,   helpless  longing   that  quickens  the 

stagnant  veins; 
'T  is  a  world-old  crying  for  something  that  rouses  the 

hidden  pains; 
JT  is  a  hopeless  searching  for  surcease  —  I've  called  on 

the  gods  that  are  true, 
And  now  I  recall  my  religion  —  but  turn  to  the  Spirit 

of  You. 

19 


"THE     SPIRIT     OF     YOU" 

''There's  a  violet  scent  in  my  nostrils;  there's  a  violet 

breath  on  my  cheek; 
I'm  seeking  no  thin-worded  parting  —  well  knowing  you 

never  would  speak. 
Now  the  moments  that  waited  run  swiftly  —  aye,   time 

was  the  friend  I  knew; 
And  he's  brought  me  at  last  to  my  altar  —  to  pray  to 

the  Spirit  of  You. 

"I've  cursed  in  my  moments  of  passion;  besought  with 

a  heart  contrite; 
But  never  an  answer  to  praying  —  though  I'm  having  it 

answered   to-night. 
'Tis  an  old,  old,  cold,  old  longing  —  'tis  a  dreaming  that 

never  came  true  — 
But  the  blessing  of  Faith  comes  to  me  as  I  pray  to  the 

Spirit  of  You." 

We  laid   him   out   there  as  he  wanted  —  McSweal,   of 

the  Battery,  dead; 
With  a  blanket  of  perfumed  blossoms;  and  the  guidon 

under  his  head ; 
With   the  locket  still  clasped   in  his  fingers  —  we   gave 

him  a  volley  or  two, 
And  we  left  him  out  there  as  he  wanted  —  to  talk  with 

the  Spirit  of  You! 


20 


"  PAL  " 
(Algeria,   1910.) 

T KEY'S  a  guy  in  a  tent  beyond  me  and  he's  suckin' 
a  sickly  flute; 
They's   another    thumbin'    a   bum    guitar   and    tryin'    to 

sing,  to  boot; 
They're   givin'   a  hand  to   a  long,   lean   stiff  who  come 

from  the  sout'  o'  France, 
And   they's  a  stink  o'   strong  men   needin'   a  bath   as  a 

gang  starts  in  to  dance. 
They's   a   graveyard   smell    in   the   very   air   as   the   sun 

glare  sweats  the  sand 
And  melts  the  tallow  in  the  heart  wit'   the  iron  o'  the 

homesick  brand; 
They's  a  restless  whine  from  the  picket  line  wrhere  the 

hosses  sway  and  prance, 
And  I'm  thinkin'  o'  Pal  who  died  to-day  for  the  giddy 

ole  flag  o'  France. 

I'm  settin'   alone  in  me  solitude  wit'   me  thoughts  that 

are  thoughts  o'  Pal 

Who  died  to-day  on  the  sand-floored  plain ; 
Who's   gone  for  good   from  worry  and  pain  — 
(And  he  won't  be  bothered  by  sun  or  rain,) 

Pal,  me  dear  ole  Pal. 

21 


"  PAL  " 

We  blew  from  the  burg  o'  New  Orleans  hived  up  on 

the  Kate  McGraw  — 
(We'd  croaked  a  flatty  in  Baltimore  and  we  beat,  by  a 

nose,  the  law.) 
And    Any-Ole-Where   was    good    for   us   and   Any-Ole- 

Thing  a  chance  — 
So  we  finds  ourselves  in  a  month  or  two  in  the  crummy 

blue  clothes  o'  France. 
We  were  boot  to  boot  as  the  column  charged  the  same 

as  we  went  through  life; 
I  felt  him  fall  and  I  sensed  the  "  zing  "  of  a  boob-face 

Arab's  knife; 
And  the  gang  they  laughed  when  I  laid  him  down  to 

sleep  in  the  shiftin'  sands  — 
Wit'  a  touch  o'  me  lips  to  his  red  moustache  as  I  crost 

his  blood-stained  hands. 

I'm   settin'    alone   in   me   solitude  and   me  thoughts   are 

thoughts  o'  Pal; 

(He  flopped   from  his  hoss  and  the  charge  went  by  — 
There  wasn't  but  me  to  help  him  die 
And  there  isn't  a  soul  but  me  to  cry 

For  Pal,   me  dear  ole   Pal.) 

( 

We  met  as  kids  in  the  long  ago  and  we  trained  to  men 

—  and  crooks ; 
Ours  was  a  friendship  clost  and  fast,  the  kind  like  you 

read  in  books. 

22 


"  PAL  " 

Ours  was  a  friendship  women  don't  break;  he  onct  took 

a  frail  from  me  — 
But  I've  heard  Pal  laugh  as  he  stood  the  gaff  for  me  in 

the  Third  Degree. 
I  liked  that  gal  but  she  liked  him  best  —  he'd  the  ways 

that  a  woman  knows; 
(When  a  man  won't  fight  for  the  like  of  a  gal  it's  as 

strong  as  a  friendship  goes;) 
But  ours  was  a  friendship   women   don't   break  —  when. 

the  time  for  the  choosin'  came 
My  Pal  he  followed  me  hard  and  fast  and  I  reckon  I'd 

done  the  same. 

So  I'm  settin'  alone  in  me  solitude  wit'  me  thoughts  that 

are  thoughts  o'  Pal  — 

Who  sleeps  to-night  'neath  a  hard-boiled  sky 
And  the  lilies  o'  France  that  made  him  die; 
He  went  wit'  never  the  bat  o'  an  eye  — 

Pal,  me  dear  ole  Pal. 

Oh,    I    liked   that   gal,   but   I    liked    him   best   and    she's 

waitin'  back  there  for  one ; 
(He  was  wounded  bad  and  he  had  to  die  so  I   helped 

wit'  the  butt  o'  me  gun;) 
For  I  stood  next  to  me  dear  ole  Pal  wit'  the  frail  that 

he  grabbed  from  me  — 
And  a  friendship's  through  when  a  man  goes  down  wit' 

his  woman   and   goods  left   free. 
23 


"  PAL  " 

Dear  ole  Pal,  the  Big  White  Line  is  a  hell  of  a  ways 

from  here; 
But   I've  planted   you  deep   and   planted   you   tight   and 

bedded  you  down  wit'  a  tear; 
And  you  stick  there  where  you've  lots  of  room  till  the 

horn  o'  the  Judgment  Day- 
And  I'll  drink  your  healt'  wit'  the  frail  we  liked  when 

I  git  to  the  Big  White  Way! 

Yes,   I'm  settin'  alone  in   me  solitude  wit'   me  thoughts 

that  are  thoughts  o'  Pal; 

.Who  died  from  a  wound  and  a  smack  on  the  head; 
(But  the  frail  won't  know  for  me  Pal  is  dead - 
And   the   dead   don't   talk,   w'ich   is   nice   o'   the  dead  — 
Good-bye  me  dear  ole  Pal!) 


24 


THE    SONG    OF    THE    STRIKE-BREAKERS 

BOX-CARRED  an'  stockaded; 
Bayonet-paraded  — 

"  Harnessed-bulls  "  behind  us  an'  a  squad  on  either  side. 
Awake,  it's  bricks  an'  curses; 
Asleep,  we  dream  o'  hearses  — 
That's  us!     They  call  us  Rough  Necks,  an'  we're  picked 

because  we're  tried! 

That's  us!     We're  shy  o'   morals,   an'   flat  in  purse  an' 
pride ! 


Scab!     Scab!     Scab! 

Oh,  you  lousy  labor  scab!" 
But  it's  dollars  a  day  to  hear  'em  say  — 
fc  Sca-a-a-b!  " 


W'y  the  start  o'  scabbin's  in  Chapter  Four,  if  I  read  my 

Bible  plain ; 
When  Abel  he  showed  his  card  to  God,  an'  God  he  was 

sore  at  Cain ; 
For  Cain's  work  hadn't  the  Union  Brand,  though  mebbe 

he'd  struggled  hard  — 
But  they  wasn't  no  Open  Shop  them  days,  an'  a  worker 

must  have  a  card. 

25 


THE   SONG     OF     THE     STRIKE-BREAKERS 

An',  followin'  on,  they  -talked  in  the  field;  the  Bible  it 

puts  that  plain, 
An'  Abel  the  Union  Man,   no  doubt,  he  joshed  at  the 

work  o'   Cain  — 
With  many  a  stingin'  word,  perhaps,  an'  many  a  verbal 

jab, 
An'   when   Cain   started   to  work  ag'in,   his  brother  he 

called  him  "Scab!" 


So,  ever  since,  as  I  figure  it  out,  the  breed  o'  the  line 

o'   Cain 
Are  scabs  on  the  sores  o'  Abel's  folks,  an'  a  tight  scab 

gives   'em   pain; 
(Our  hands  are  stained  with  our  brother's  blood  —  Oh, 

the  swing  o'  the  club  and  dirk!) 
By  God,  we're  shameless  enough  to  live,  so  we'll  live  at 

our  brother's  work! 


We  know  the  graveyard's  wicked  leer,   an'  the  roar  o' 

the  fires  o'  Hell; 
It  comes  as  the  Trial-car  moves  along  like  a  boat  on  a 

risin'  swell; 
Branded  vags  by  the  hand  o'  God,  from  the  strength  o' 

earth  we're  barred  — 
An'  in  shame  we're  doin'  our  brother's  work,  backed  up 

by  the  Enoch  Guard ! 
26 


THE   SONG     OF     THE    STRIKE-BREAKERS 

Grind    the    wheels    with    a    bitter    wail,    as    the    soaped 

tracks  jolt  an'  throb: 
Am  I  my  brother's  keeper,  too,  along  with  my  brother's 

job? 
Out  o'  the  ground  his  blood  it  calls,  Oh,  the  weight  o' 

our  load  is  hard 
When  we're  tryin'  to  do  our  brother's  work,  but  minus 

his  Union  Card ! 


The    only    Union    you'll    find    to-day    that's   runnin'    an 

Open  Shop 
Is  the  one  our  friend  Starvation  keeps,  an'  it  works  you 

until   you   drop ; 
For  God  is  sore  on  the  sons  o'  Cain  an'  the  work  that 

we  try  to  do  — 
An'   a  curse   growls  out   o'   the   mouth   o'   earth   as   our 

brother's  blood  seeps  through! 

"  Scab!     Scab!     Scab! 

Oh,  you  lousy  labor  scab!  " 
But  it's  dollars  a  day  to  hear  'em  say  — 
(f  Sca-a-a-b!" 

Jeered,    but    feared  —  an'   hated  ; 
Cemetary  slated ; 

Battered   skulls   an'   shattered   hulls,    should   we   be   sat 
isfied? 

27 


THE   SONG    OF     THE     STRIKE-BREAKERS 

Awake  it's  bricks  an'  curses; 
Asleep,  we  dream  o'  hearses  — 
That's  us!     They  call  us  Rough  Necks,   an'  we're  flat 

in  purse  an'  pride; 

That's  us!     There  used   to  be  some  more,   but  several 
of  us  died! 


28 


BALLAD  OF  LONELY  GRAVES 

,    whether   they   stand   in   a   desert   plain    or   the 
heart  of  a  silent  wood 
The  winds  they  sing  to  the  lonely  graves  and   the  sun 

and  the  stars  are  good ; 
And  they  tell  no  tales  of  a  wrongful  life,  but  they  speak 

in  a  restful  \vay 

And  the  men  in  the  lonely  graves  sleep  well  awaiting  the 
judgment  day. 

No,  no,  the  lonely  graves  don't  speak,   they  lie  in   the 

warming  sun 
And   those  who   pass   that  way   don't   know   the   things 

that  the  dead  have  done. 
They  can  only  look  at  the  silent  mounds  that  the  patient 

flowers  attend  — 
And  muse,  as  I've  mused  at  a  thousand  mounds:     "  Do 

you  rest  well,  my  friend?" 

For    the   world    is   seeded    with    lonely    graves,    and    the 
harvest  at  judgment  day 

Will  be  an  army  of  unknown  men  who  will  wait  in  a 
quiet  way; 

And  when  they  turn  to  the  Docket  Clerk,  and  the  rec 
ord  of  years  defend 

They'll    whisper    the    names    to     Him    low     and    say: 
''Thanks  for  that  rest,  Our  Friend!" 
29 


BRO  THERS-BY-OA  TH 

THE    AMERICAN    NAVY 

,   or  day   before,   his   nobs  wuz   in  th' 
•*•      steerage; 
(Stinkin'  an    a-sweatin    an    a-stewin    in  th'  steerage;) 

Yesterday,  or  day   before,  a  member  o'  th'  peerage  — 
Now  he's  took  a  bath  an    oath,  an    he's  American. 

Our  flag  is  as  broad  as  the  daylight's  range,  for  we've 
strung  it  from  Pole  to  Pole; 

An'  we're  Brothers-by-Oath  to  half  o'  th'  world  who 
answer  th'  navy's  roll; 

Our  flag  is  as  wide  as  th'  Night  Time's  lid  an'  it  flaps 
to  th'  Four  Winds'  breath  — 

(An'  you'll  notice  our  navy's  casualty  list  when  it's  pay 
ing  its  toll  to  Death!) 

Adams  come  from  'way  down  South;  Appel  he  is  Dutch; 

Brady  is  an  Irishman,  an'  Coogan  is  th'  same. 
D'Vorak  come  from  Roosha,  so  he  isn't  such-a-much  — 
But  he  sleeps  beside  a  Frenchman  with   D'Arcy  for 

a  name. 

Ewarts  is  an  Englisher,  an'  Fadin'  Fog  is  Sioux; 
Gigliuck  an  Esquimo;  Hbwdinski  is  a  Jew; 
Imz  is  fresh  from  Germany;  Gomez,  a  Spanish  stew — 
But  each  has  took  his  bath  an'  oath  an'  passed  Ameri 
can. 

30 


BRO  THERS-BY-OA  TH 

Johann  out  o'  Sweden,  an'  Jorgen  he's  a  Dane; 

Jones  a  Hfggins  county  rube,   an'   Keeler   from   New 

York. 
Lockhart  smells  a  little  Scotch,  an'   Morgan  hails  from 

Maine  — 

Hang  th'  list  o'  Macs  and  O's  on  Edinburgh  or  Cork! 
Philpotts  claimin'  Pilgrim  blood;  Quovach  is  a  Pole; 
Raoul  an'  Eyetalian,  but  he  has  a  tender  soul; 
Schmidt  an'   Smith  an'  also  Smythe  are  half  th'   navy's 

roll  — 
But  every  one  is  labeled  with  a  tag:     "American." 

Tonka  is  Kanaka,  an'  Tompkins  Boston  bum; 

Urquhart  is  a  colleger  like  Van  de  Venter  Scroows; 
Williams  a  Creole  suspect,  from  Noo  Orleans  he  come. 

Xanaphe  a  Grecian  gent,  who  uster  shine  yer  shoes; 
Yousefi,  his  dad  wuz  Turk,  th'  line  is  mostly  done ; 
Zelach  come  from  Switzerland,  an'  Zurich  is  a  Hun  — 
But  now  they're  good  Americans  —  a  tag  on  every  one  — 

What  th'  hell  is  origin,  so  long  as  he's  a  man? 


Yesterday,  or  day  before,  this  guy  ivuz  in  th'  steerage; 
(Stinkin'  an    a-sweatin    an    a-stewin    in  th'  steerage;) 
Yesterday,  or  day  before,  a  member  o'  th'  peerage  — 
But  now  by  bath  an    oath  he  is  a  clean  American. 


BRO  THERS-BY-OA  TH 

Our  flag  is  as  broad  as  th'   daylight's  range  an'  we've 

strung  it  from  Pole  to  Pole; 
Where  it  will  hang  by  th'  grace  o'  God  an'  th'  strength 

o'  our  fighting  roll ; 
Oh,  we're  Brothers-by-Oath  to  all  o'  th'  world  an'  th' 

world  it  has  tears  to  shed 
When    it's    readin'    th'    cable-sent    casualty    list    that's; 

headed :     "  Americans  —  Dead !  " 


THE  ARMY  OF  GOD-KNOWS-WHERE 

(CIVIL  ENGINEERS) 

O  bands  are  playing  gayly  when  they're  going  into 
action. 

No  crowds  are  cheering  madly  at  their  deeds  of  derring- 
do; 

They  are  owing  small  allegiance  to  any  flag  or  faction  - 
Their  colors  on  the  sky-line  and  their  war  cry,     "  Put 
it  through !  " 

Ahead  of  bath  and  Bible  and  of  late  repeating  rifle, 

The  flags  can  only  follow  to  the  starting  of  their  trail ; 
They    herd    the    leagues    behind    them,    every    mile    the 

merest  trifle; 

They  mark  the  paths  of  safety  for  the  slower  sail  and 
rail. 

They  work  the  Quite   Impossible;  they  scoff  the  earth 

and  water  — 
They've    solved    the    problems   of    the   air   and    found 

them  easy,  too. 
They   quell   the   ocean's   raging,    the   mountains'    fearful 

hauteur, 

As  they  march  toward  the  sky-line  with  the  war  cry, 
"Put  it  through!" 

33 


THE     ARMY     OF     GOD-KNOWS-WHERE 

'Their  standards  kiss  the  breezes  from  the  Arctic's  cool 
ing  ices 
To  where  the  South  Pole's  poking  out  its  undiscovered 

head  ; 
You  can  see  their  chains-a-snaking  through  the  lands  of 

rum  and  spices  — 

And  East  and  West  you'll  always  find  their  unrepining 
dead. 


No  time  for  love  and  laughter,  with   their  rods  upon 

their  shoulders, 
No  time  to  think  with  vain  regret  of  home  or  passing 

friends. 
They   are   slipping   down    the   chasms,    charging    up    the 

mighty  bowlders, 

The  compass  stops  from  overwork;  the  pathway  never 
ends. 


They  slit  the  gullet  of  the  earth;   disgorge  its  hoarded 

riches 
(But  life's  too  short  for  them  to  stop  and  snatch  a 

rightful  share)  ; 
They've  a  booking  on  the  Congo  putting  in  some  water 

ditches ; 

A  dating  to  take  tea  with  death;  they  make  it  by  a 
hair ! 

34 


THE     ARMY     OF     GOD-KNOWS-WHERE 

You  will  find  their  pickets  watching  in  the  unexpected 

places ; 
You  will  hear  them  talking  freely  of  the  Things-That- 

Can't-Be-Done; 
Oh,  the  Faith  they  speak  so  strongly  and  the  Hope  that's 

in  their  faces  — 

It  lights  the  gloom  of  What's-the-Use  as  brightly  as 
the  sun! 

No  bands  are  playing   gaily  and   no  crowds   are  madly 

cheering ; 

No  telegraph  behind  them  tells  their  deeds  of  derring- 
do; 
But    forward    goes    the    legion,    never    doubting,    never 

fearing  — 

Their  colors  on  the  sky-line  and  their  war  cry,     "  Put 
it  through !  " 


35 


THE  "HAS  BEEN" 


o    the  hosses  in  blankets 
Breath  oJ  the  timothy  hay; 
Champ  o'  their  teeth  at  their  feedin, 

Stamp  of  the  feet  at  their  play; 
Stink  oJ  the  racin    stables  — 

Roar  oJ  the  track  an   ring  — 
Is  music  an    perfume  for  a  Has-Been 
Who  rode  for  a  furrin    king! 

Me,   as  is  boss  o'  the  jockeys'  room,    (an'   the  half  o' 

them  mostly  cooks;) 
Who'r'  makin'   their  weights  in   the  Turkey  baths  an' 

ridin'  to  suit  the  books; 
Me,  as  is  elbowed  so  freely  around  by  all  o'  this  gutter 

trash 
Once   rode  a   race   for  a  furrin'   king  wit'   a   'Merican 

Flag  for  a  sash! 

You  talk  o'  yer  dippylomatters,  an'  the  fame  they  has 

brought  to  the  flag  — 
Why,  they'll  be  dead  a  t'ousand  years  wit'  never  a  thing 

to  brag  — 
But  the  woild  sat  up  an'  noticed,   an'   it  made  a  con 

siderable  splash 
When  I  rode  for  a  furrin'  noble  gent  wit'  a  'Merican 

flag  for  a  sash! 

36 


THE      "  HAS-BEEN  " 

I  was  gettin'  me  a  start  at  Sheepshead  Bay  an'  workin' 

for  Father  Bill 
Who  kept  me  light  wit'  a  ridin'  bat  an'  a  mornin's  gal- 

lopin'  drill; 
I  was  up  on  the  sellin'  platers  an'  the  mutts  that  never 

could  win 
When  I  finds  me  seat  on  the  hosses'  necks  an'  me  hands 

as  light  as  a  pin. 


Me,  as  is  king  o'  the  lightweight  jocks  in  a  week  at  the 

Sheepshead  meet; 
Wit'  a  cast-iron  nerve  an'  a  level  nut,  an'  me  judgment 

couldn't  be  beat ; 
Always  somewhere  in  the  money,  an'  gittin'  the  best  o' 

the  mounts  — 
Puttin'  them  over  at  t'ree  a  day,  an'  only  the  winnin' 

counts ! 


Me,   that   they  called   the   Marvelous   Kid   an'    never   a 

race  I  t' rowed  — 
The  players  no  longer  follered  dope,  but  only  the  hosses 

I  rode; 
Never  a  long  shot  under  me  that  they  didn't  make  it  a 

kill- 
I  rode  in  the  mud  at  Noo  Orleens,  an'  I   rode  'em  at 

Emeryville. 

37 


THE     "HAS-BEEN" 

So  I  went  wit'  me  crouch  acrost  the  sea;   I'm  a  frost 

when  it  comes  to  looks 
They  give  me  a  big  fat  hoss  laugh,  an'  I  put  a  crimp  in 

their  books; 
Beatin'   them   bum   ole   riders  an'   poundin'   the  betting 

ring  — 
An'  then  I'm  hired  for  a  president's  bit  to  ride  for  the 

furrin'  king! 


Me,  wit'  his  mount  in  a  swell  stake  race,  an'   a  price 

'bout  twenty  to  one; 
(I'm  out  all  night  wit'  a  gang  o'  guys  a  takin'  aboard 

a  bun ; ) 
An'  I'm  there  when  the  starter  calls  us,  but  me  judgment 

had  gone  to  smash  — 
Cause  I  slips  on  the  kingie's  colors,  wit'  a  'Merican  flag 

for  a  sash! 


Say,  it  won't  be  so  quiet,  when  all  o'  the  world's  gone 

dead 
As  it  was  when  I  rode  for  the  post  parade  a-bobbin'  me 

achin'  head  — 
An'  never  again  while  bosses  run  will  there  be  such  a 

race  or  ride, 
For  I   rode  wit'   me   head   an'   me  hands  an'   heels  an' 

walloped  the  furrin'  pride! 

38 


THE     "  HAS-BEEN  " 

I  give  'em  the  show  of  a  lifetime,  an'  I'm  as  limp  as  a 

rag, 
But    I    wins    for    his    worship's    colors,    along    wit'    the 

'Merican  flag; 
It  busted  the  bettin'  public,  an'  Lord,  how  the  lobsters 

roared  — 
They  couldn't  beat  me  at  ridin'  but  they  beat  me  before 

their  board ! 


Me,   as  is  boss  o'   the  jockeys'   room,   an'   down   on   the 

ground  for  life; 
An'   me  money  had   gone   in   a  sucker  way  before  they 

slipped  me  the  knife; 
I  took  me  tack  to  the  bushes,  but  me  nerve  it  had  gone 

to  smash  — 
Since  I  rode  for  the  furrin'  noble  gent  wit'  a  'Merican 

flag  for  a  sash! 


That's  me — as  is  light  as  a  'prentice  boy,  but  me  hands 

no  longer  are  good, 
Me  judgment  o'  pace  is  rotten,  an'  me  legs  they  is  turnin' 

to  wood ; 
That's  me — as  is  swipin'  the  hosses  now,  an'  isn't  allowed 

on  the  track  — 
That  they're  callin'  the  good  ole  Waser  —  an'  the  Has- 

Been  never  comes  back  — 
39 


THE     "HAS-BEEN" 

But,  you  talk  o'  yer  dippylomatters,  an'  the  fame  they 

has  brought  to  the  flag  — 
Why,  they'll  be  dead  a  t'ousand  years  an'  never  a  thing 

to  brag; 
But  the  racin'  woild  won't  never  forget  how  I  makes 

that  play  so  brash 
An'  rode  for  a  furrin'  royal  gent  wit'  a  'Merican  flag 

for  a  sash! 

Sweat  o'  the  hosses  In  blankets 

Breath  oJ  the  timothy  hay  ; 
Champ  oJ  the  teeth  at  their  fee  din 

Stamp  o'  the  feet  at  their  play  ; 
Stink  o   the  racin   stables; 

Roar  o    the  track  an   ring 
Is  music,  an   perfume  for  a  Has-Been 

Who  rode  for  a  furrin    king! 


40 


THE  SONG  OF  KING  BARLEYCORN 

ICH  man,  poor  man,  beggar  man,  thief  " 

Broken  hearts  and  a  Tearful  Grief; 
"  Doctor,  lawyer,  merchant,  chief  "  — 
Listen  to  the  roll  of  Barleycorn! 

Down  in  the  Dead  Room  there  they  lie; 
Down  in  the  Dead  Room  Sob  and  Sigh, 
Nod  to  Terror  with  a  fishy  eye  — 
Listen  to  the  dirge  of  Barleycorn ! 

Sorrow,  Hate  and  Grim  Despair 
All  lie  sheeted  and  quiet  there  — 
Down  in  the  Dead  Room ;  who's  to  care  ? 
Listen  to  the  joy  of  Barleycorn ! 

Desolate  homes  and  bitter  sneers; 
Sun-dried  graves  and  women's  tears  — 
(Down  in  the  Dead  Room  no  one  hears — ) 
Listen  to  the  song  of  Barleycorn! 


SONG  OF  THE  STEEL  WORKER 

\  T  T  ELL,     gentlemen  —  swell     gentlemen  —  in     your 

frowsy,  drowsy  clubs, 
Take  note  o'  me  an'   Bill   McGhee,   an'   twenty   other 

dubs 

Who're  stuck  agin  the  sky  line,  like  flies  agin  a  wall  — 
Ho,  think  o'  me  an'  Bill  McGhee,  an'  watch  us  as  we 

crawl 
Around  the  bars,  between  the  stars  an'  up  the  shafts  or 

day; 
You   hear  the   gang  when   the   hammers   clang  an'    the 

bullgines  hoist  away! 


"  Ho,  give  us  a  job  to  fix  the  moon ;  to  tinker  the  golden 

stair! 

Give  us  a  chance  an'  see  us  prance  along  a  path  o'  air  I 
We'll  hang  for  hours  by  our  teeth  to  the  flowers  that 

grow  in  the  turquoise  bed, 
An'  riffle  a  seine  through  the  silver  rain  for  the  tears 

that  the  angels  shed !  " 

Aye,     gentlemen  —  high    gentlemen  —  in    your    frowsy, 

drowsy  clubs, 
Take    note   o'    me   an'    Bill    McGhee    an'    twenty   other 

dubs 

42 


SONG      OF     THE     STEEL      WORKER 

(The  half  o'  them  are  come-ons,  an'  the  other  half's  a 

scream)  — 
But  watch  'em  as  they  sift  between  the  banks  o'  risin' 

steam ! 
Toward  the  clouds,  above  the  crowds,  above  the  dinky 

town  — 
They  follow  the  flight  o'  the  shafts  o'  light  that  God 

Himself  sends  down! 

Ho,     gentlemen  —  so,     gentlemen  —  at     your     hasteful, 

wasteful  ease, 

Get  on  to  us  an'  hear  us  cuss,  an'  watch  us  as  we  squeeze 
The  girders  into  decent  shape,  an'  see  the  graceful  way 
We  swing  like  toy  balloons  to  meet  the  comin'  o'  the  day ! 
Toward  the  sky  we  climb  so  high;  through  vacant  space 

we  grope  — 
We're  anchored  there  by  earnest  prayer,  with  God  our 

chiefest  hope! 

"  So  give  us  a  chance  to  paint  the  clouds,   or  prop  the 

fallin'  stars; 
Give  us  a  crack  at  the  milky  track,  or  a  job  to  rivet 

Mars. 
We'll  can  the  thunder  an'  make  Jove  wonder  who's 

stealin'  his  lightnin'  bolts  — 

And  step  up  to  Venus,  who'll  say  that  she's  seen  us 
when  we  hand  her  a  couple  o'  jolts!  " 


43 


FOR  THE  CRY  OF  A  LITTLE  CHILD 

T  DREAMED  of  a  legion  of  women,  who  waited  with 

-••     eyes  aglow 

In  the  shadow  of  Loves  Forgotten,  by  the  Ports  of  the 
Long  Ago; 

I  dreamed  of  a  legion  of  women  whose  faces  were  ten 
derly  mild  — 

And  hark !  In  the  night  I  heard  it  —  the  cry  of  a  little 
child ! 

I  looked  on  the  waiting  women  through  the  mist  of  a 
thousand  years; 

And  some  of  their  eyes  were  smiling  and  some  were  suf 
fused  with  tears. 

Yet  they  sang  as  a  choir  in  training,  and  the  song  of  the 
waiting  throng 

Was  the  old,  old  cry  to  Heaven :  "  How  long,  O  Lord, 
how  long?  " 

I  dreamed  of  a  legion  of  women  who  stood  in  a  driving 

rain  ; 

Who  raised  their  voices  singing,  yet  sang  but  one  refrain  ; 
I  looked  on  the  waiting  women,   and  their  faces  were 

white  and  wild  — 
And  hark!     In  the  night  I  heard  it —  the  cry  of  a  little 

child! 

44 


BALLADS  OF  A  BEACH  COMBER 


WHO  GOES  THIS  WAY? 

THERE  ain't  a  single  reason  why  a  man  should  go 
astray ; 

There's  about  a  million  reasons  why  he  shouldn't. 
But    who's    a-huntin'     Reason    when    ole     Folly    calls 

"Away?" 

You  needn't  try  to  find  it,  'cause  you  couldn't. 
There  is  many  an'  many  a  pathway  w'ich  is  crooked  as 

a  snake; 

Likewise  there's  many  a  pathway  w'ich  is  straight. 
An'   they  has  a  lot  of  sameness,   barrin'   one   is  hedged 

with  tameness 
When  you  clears  yer  ship  beyond  th'  Golden  Gate ! 


47 


ROSES  OF  A  DREAM 

A  WOMAN'S  a  scent  of  perfume;  a  snatch  of  a  pass 
ing  song, 
And  loving  a  haze  of  hasheesh  for  making  the  brain  go 

wrong  ; 
Dear  Christ!     But   I   loved  the   odor,   the  music  spoke 

Heaven  to  me  — 

(Hark!  That's  the  pound  of  the  breakers  and  the  roar 
of  the  open  sea!) 

Somehow  I'm  thinking  of  roses  —  but  blessing  the  coral 

bar 
That  sends  me  the  song  of  the  breakers  —  my  thinking 

might  wander  too  far; 
Somehow  I'm  thinking  of  roses  —  and   dreaming  —  and 

dreaming  —  Ah,  me ! 
(Hark!     That's  the  throb  of  the  breakers  and  the  sound 

of  the  open  sea!) 

Somehow  I'm  thinking  of  roses  and  scenting  a  rose  per 
fume  ; 

Oh,  this  is  the  springtime  yonder,  and  roses  are  coming 
to  bloom! 

And  soon  it  will  be  white  summer  —  but  what  can  it 
mean  to  me? 

(Hark!  There's  the  song  of  the  breakers  and  the  voice 
of  the  open  sea!) 

48 


ROSES     OF     A      DREAM 

Somehow  I'm  thinking  of  roses  and  light  and  a  lilting 
song  — 

(But  loving's  a  haze  of  hasheesh  for  making  the  brain 
go  wrong.) 

Of  roses  of  white  and  crimson  —  of  dusk  —  and  a  friend 
ly  tree  — 

(Hark!  There's  the  sound  of  the  breakers  and  the  roar 
of  the  open  sea!) 

Aye,    a   woman's   a   scent   of   perfume,    the   breath    of   a 

fading  rose  — 

And  music  don't  last  forever,  however  sweetly  it  goes; 
But  somehow  I'm  thinking  of  roses  that  carry  an  ancient 

plea  — 
(Thank  God!     There's  the  throb  of  the  breakers  and  the 

roar  of  the  open  sea!) 

A  woman's  a  scent  of  perfume,  a  snatch  of  a  passing  song 
And  loving  a  haze  of  hasheesh  for  making  the  brain  go 

wrrong  — 
Did  I  say  that  I  loved  the  odor?     Ah,  well,  let  the  roses 

be  — 
(Hark!     There's  the  wail  of  the  breakers  and  the  sigh 

of  the  open  sea!) 


49 


THE  GODS  OF  YESTERDAY 

V  I  VIS  the  soul  of  Matthew  passin'  in  the  blackness 
••-      o'  the  night; 
'T  is  the  soul  of  Matthew  talkin'  to  itself  — 

(Ah,  say!) 
'T  is  the  echo  of  his  wishes  'fore  he  goes  to  feed  the 

fishes  — 

'Cause  who'd  bespeak  his  own  soul  but  himself? 
(Ah,  say!) 

"  Me,  as  has  bowed  in  worship  at  a  pagan  idol's  shrine, 
A-chantin    prayers  to  Something,  an    the  same  was  callin 

Mine; 

Me,  as  has  burned  good  incense  for  to  drive  ill  luck  away 
Am  searching  —  'cause  Fm  dyin — for  the  Gods  of  Yes 
terday" 

I  have  heard  the  blood  a-drippin  in  a  creepy  sort  o'  way; 
I  have  heard  his  victims  cryin'  'fore  they  died  — 

(Ah,  say!) 

I  have  seen  their  pinky  faces,  as  he  shot  'em  in  their  places 
An'  I  know  his  soul's  a-meanin'  when  it  sighed ! 
(Ah,  say!) 

"  I've  skimmed  the  earth  o'  rotten  spume  to  mold  a  human 

form  — 

The  same  you  see  before  you  an    the  same  is  Matthew 
Storm! 

50 


THE      GODS      OF     YESTERDAY 

The  same  they  call  the  wrecker  —  an    he's  seekin    for  to 

pray  — 
To  bow  his  head  a  moment  to  the  Gods  of  Yesterday!" 

I've  heard  him  curse  his  Father-God  an'  seen  him  strike 

his  blows  — 
(You  hear  his  soul  a  talkin'  to  itself?) 

(Ah,  say!) 
An'  I'll  do  some  pretty  bettin'  that  his  God  He  ain't  for- 

gettin' 

But'll  leave  his  soul  a-speakin'  to  itself ! 
(Ah,  say!) 

"Me,  as  has  long  forgotten  how  to  start  a  single  prayer, 
Exceptin  (  now  I  lay  me'  an  my  memory's  stallin  there; 
Where  is  that  man  called  Jesus  —  Ah,  there's  no  one  here 

to  pray 
An    take  me  back  a  moment  to  the  Gods  of  Yesterday!" 

Aye,  the  soul  of  Matthew's  passin'  an'  it's  shunned  upon 

the  way  — 
It's  damned  before  it's  startin'  on  the  trip  — 

(Ah,  say!) 
An'  I'll  bet  there's  spirits  layin'  all  along  his  path  an' 

prayin' 

That  he  won't  be  long  in  droppin'  from  his  ship ! 
(Ah,  say!) 


THE      GODS      OF     YESTERDAY 

"Me  as  has  bowed  in  worship  at  a  heathen  idol's  shrine 
Am  huntin    now  in  darkness  for  the  Gods  that  onct  were 

Mine; 
'I  am   the  Resurrection  — an    the  Life'  —  forgive  me  — 

say  — 
An    take  me  back  a  moment  to  the  Gods  of  Yesterday!" 


THE  SONG  OF  SILENCE 

THE  surf  hallooes  to  the  coral  reef,  but  its  voice  don't 
come  to  me  ; 

(Long  ago  it  spoke  about  the  city's  roaring  streets)  ; 
Now  it  tells  its  story  to  the  sad  old  open  sea  — 

Knowing  it  can't  quicken  none  my  heart's  low,  even 

beats. 

No  voices  come  to  pester  me  across  the  empty  years ; 
No  footsteps  falling  heavy  as  to  rouse  my  idle  fears  — 
And  all  I  hear  is  Silence,  which  is  soothing  to  my  ears, 
With  its  song  of  "Sh-h-h!" 

The  West  Wind  speaks  to  the  mango  trees,  but  I  don't 

know  what  he  tells  — 

(Long  ago  'twas  gossip  of  the  kind  I  loved  to  hear)  ; 
Now  he  breathes  it  softly  as  the  echo  in  the  shells  — 

Knowing  he's  no  news  for  me  to  start  a  smile  or  tear. 
Oh,  heart  of  mine,  we  listened  long  ago  for  every  word ; 
Oh,  heart  of  mine,  we  waited,  and  \vhat  hopes  within  us 

stirred ; 
But  now  we  heark  to  Silence,  and  the  memory  has  been 

blurred 
By  its  song  of  "  Sh-h-h!" 

The  sea  birds  speak  to  the  flowers  and  the  waves  talk  to 

the  beach  — 

(Long  ago  I  listened  for  a  message  meant  for  me!) 
53 


THE     SONG     OF     SILENCE 

Hopes  are  buried  yonder  where    the    very    foam    don't 

reach  — 

Let  them  tell  their  story  to  the  wide-eyed  wicked  sea! 
Oh,  heart  of  mine,  we  listened  long  ago  by  day  and  night  ; 
Oh,  heart  of  mine,  we  waited  till  our  hopes  had  felt  the 

'blight ; 
And   then   we   heard    the    Silence  — and    the   dark  was 

turned  to  light 
By  its  song  of  "Sh-h-h!" 


54 


DREAM  OF  A  DROWSY  DAY 

LALOA  sits  by  the  palm  leaf  hut,  nursing  our  young 
est  child ; 
Laloa  murmurs  some  tuneless  words  in  a  voice  that's  meant 

to  be  mild ; 
And  I  lie  dreaming  of  ancient  loves  in  the  shade  of  a 

mango  tree, 
While  Laloa  sings  to  my  son  and  heir,  but  is  keeping  her 

eye  on  me! 

(And  Laloa  wears  at  her  naked  waist  a  long-  sharp  knife, 
you  see!) 

They  pass  before  my  memory;    a    cloud    of    fluttering 
lace  — 

Imogene,  with  her  sloe  black  hair;  Grace  of  the  dream- 
masked  face; 

Nell,  Katherine,  the  fair  Estelle,  Helen,  and  many  more 

Whose  voices  call   me   from   the  waves   that   finger   the 

friendless  shore  — 

(But  Laloa  sits  by   the  palm   leaf  hut  and  her  blow- 
gun  stands  in  the  door!) 

I'm   thinking   of   summer   nights   long   gone,    and   strolls 

'neath  a  patient  moon 
When  words  came  brisk  to  my  thoughtless  tongue,  along 

with  a  lovelorn  tune; 

55 


DREAM     OF     A      DROWSY     DAY 

But  a  man  needn't  marry  all  of  his  loves,  nor  cherish  the 

one  he  gets  — 
And  life  would  be  but  a  barren  waste  if  he  hadn't  a  few 

regrets  — 
{Laloa,  there j  by  the  palm  leaf  hut  —  I'm  owing  her 

certain  debts!) 

I  feel  the  touch  of  their  lips  again  in  the  breezes'  soft 
caress ; 

I  loved  them  all,  but  the  things  they  meant  I  didn't  re 
gard,  I  guess; 

And  I  dream  sometime  that  I'd  like  to  go  back,  perhaps 
they  remember  me  — 

But  Laloa  sits  by  the  palm  leaf  hut  with  a  knife  at  her 

waist,  you  see! 

(And  Laloa  will  swing  with  deadly  aim  whenever  she 
swings  at  me!) 

Women   are  women,   world   without   end,   and,   mostly, 
women  are  good; 

And  those  that  are  bad  are  not  to  blame,  they're  only  mis 
understood  — 

For  women  were  all  of  them  made  to  love  by  someone, 
possibly  me  — 

And  I  love  them  all,  except  Laloa,  with  my  son  and  heir 

at  her  knee ! 

(But  Laloa  sits  by  the  palm  leaf  hut  in  range  of  my 
mango  tree!) 

56 


DREAM     OF     A      DROWSY     DAY 

Oh,  Laloa's  teeth  are  a  betel  nut  black  and  her  breath 

is  a  thing  to  shun, 
But  Laloa  bore  me  a  son  and  heir,  which  is  more  than 

the  rest  have  done. 
Laloa's  father  is  king  of  his  tribe  so  my  child  has  claims 

to  a  throne; 
And  I'm   not  as  jealous  of  Laloa's  love  as  I  was  with 

some  I've  known  — 
(And  then  there's  Laloa  s  knife  and  gun  and  a  temper 

that's  all  her  own!} 


57 


THE  CONSOLER 

THEY   wuz   slippin'   Wingy   Wo   in  a  lousy  leetle 
hole 
An'  they  piles  'is  coffin  'eavy  with  some  grub  to  feed  'is 

soul. 
Oh,  they  piles  'is  coffin  'eavy  with  their  rice  an'  souey 

too 

When  I  'appens  by  th'  boneyard  an'  I  smells  th'  savory 
stew. 

Then  I  sees  'is  widder  settin'  by  th'  grave  an'  weepin' 

sad 
Fer  ter  keep  'is  soul  from  goin'  ter  th'  place  o'  things 

wot's  bad. 

An'  I  drors  up  clost  beside  'er  an'  I  whispers  in  'er  ear 
'Till  she  gives  a  leetle  giggle  an'  she  dries  'er  bitter  tear. 

An'  I  wuz  mighty  hungry,  so  I  tells  'er  on  th'  spot 
That  I  met  th'  soul  o'  'usband  headed  fer  th'  place  wot's 

hot; 

An'  I  tells  that  'e  tole  fer  ter  eat  th'  bloomin'  grub 
'Cause  'is  time  wuz  sorter  pressin'  fer  ter  catch  th'  'Ell- 
ward  Stub. 

An'  I  eats  it  with  a  relish  an'  so  fast  I'm  like  ter  choke 
While  she  watches  me  'bewildered  from  a  ring  o'  punky 
smoke ; 

58 


THE     CONSOLER 

Then  I  wipes  my  lips  an'  tells  'er  that  'er  'usband  slippin' 

free 
'Ad  sent  'er  back  a  lovin'  kiss  an'  sent  it  back  by  me. 

Oh,  I  gives  to  'er  a  whackin'  kiss  upon  'er  puggy  nose 
An'  she  blushes  down  beneath  'er  paint  just  like  a  bloomin' 

rose. 
An'  as  I  wraps  my  arm  around  her  waist  so  neat  an' 

trim  — 
She  sez :  "  'E  sent  a  kiss  ter  me  —  take  this  un  back  ter 


An'  so  we're  livin'  'appy  an'  a-lovin'  quite  a  lot  — 

An'  often  thinks  o'  Wingy  Wo  down  in  th'  place  wot's 

hot. 

'Is  ghost  it  never  bothered  us;  wre  watches  every  day  — 
I  wonder  if  ole  Wingy's  soul  was  starved  upon  th'  way? 


59 


THE  ISLE  OF  SWEET  CONTENT 

WHEN  I  was  young  —  which  I  used  to  be,  though 
my  hair  is  pretty  gray  — 

I  heard  the  old  men  talk  at  night  of  an  island  far  away; 

They  called  it  the  Isle  of  Sweet  Content,  but  never  a 
chart  could  show 

A  route  to  the  isle  they  all  revered  and  sometime  hoped 
to  go. 

And  they  sang    a  song  that  stirred  the  heart  and  cleared 
the  clouded  brain: 

They  sang  the  song  of  Sweet  Content,  with  voices  thin 
and  almost  spent  — 

They  sang  a  song  and  sang  it  long,  a  song  to  this  re 
frain  : 

ff  Ho  for  the  Isle  of  Sweet  Content  — 

Ho/  Yo-hof 
Follow  the  stars  and  the  weather's  bent  — 

They  know!  Yo-hof 
To  find  the  Isle  of  Sweet  Content 
Follow  the  stars  and  the  weather's  bent; 
Somewhere  it  lies  'neath  southern  skies  — 

Somewhere  —  Yo-ho!  " 

Oh,  I  was  young  —  yes,  I  used  to  be  —  and  they  talked 

of  treasures  rare 
To  be  found  on  the  Isle  of  Sweet  Content  and  I  longed 

to  seek  them  there. 

60 


THE     ISLE      OF     SWEET     CONTENT 

11  East  you  sail  and  west,"  they  said,  "  you  beat  through 

the  southern  seas 
To  find  this  Isle  of  Sweet  Content,  where  spirits  dwell 

at  ease. 
Sail   you   true   to   the   northern   edge    and   back   to   the 

southern  pole: 
To  find  the  Isle  of  Sweet  Content  follow  the  stars  and 

the  weather's  bent  "  — 
They  sang  their  song  and  sang  it  long  to  cheer  a  tired 

soul. 

Oh,  I've  grown  old  as  we  all  must  do  when  the  shore 

lines  fade  away; 
And  the  old  men  stroke  their  whiskers  still  and  yarn  in 

the  old  man  way, 
But  I   have  learned   from  starry  skies  and  silent  shores 

they  meant 
I'd   find   in   the  pathless  seas  of  Age  the  Isle   of  Sweet 

Content. 
So   I   sing  the  song  that  stirs  the   heart  and   clears  the 

clouded  brain  — 
"  Oh,  I  was  young  and  victory  meant  to  find  the  Isle  of 

Sweet  Content." 
So  I  sing  their  song  and  sing  it  long  to  swell  the  great 

refrain. 


61 


WHEN  THE  SHIPS  GO  HOME 

F'VE  seen  'em  go  from  a  hundred  ports 
•*•  With  th'  breath  o'  Home  in  their  sails. 
I've  felt  th'  thrall  o'  th'  Homeward  Call 

In  th'  wake  they  leaves  at  their  tails. 
I've  heard  th'  breezes  whisperin'  Home  — 

Th'  Catch  in  th'  throat  I  know; 
An'  I've  felt  th'  dart  o'  th'  Homing  Heart 

('Way  back  in  th'  Long  Ago!) 

A  beautiful  sight  is  th'  Home  Bound  boats 

With  their  bellyin'  sails  to  th'  wind; 
An'  you  hears  'em  sigh  as  they're  passin'  by 

Th'  ones  who  stay  behind. 
Oh,  I've  seen  'em  drift  from  a  hundred  ports 

An'  I've  felt  th'  call  to  go; 
But  I've  let  'em  slide  with  th'  ebbin'  tide 

('Way  back  in  th'  Long  Ago!) 

As  I  see  'em  go  from  a  hundred  ports 

I  hear  th'  trees  sing  "  Stay!  " 
I  hear  th'  note  in  th'  ocean's  throat; 

In  th'  song  o'  th'  ocean  spray. 
Oh,  a  beautiful  sight  is  th'  Home  Bound  boats, 

But  we  are  the  ones  who  know 
That  our  hearts  are  here  since  we  brought  them  here 

('Way  back  in  th'  Long  Ago!) 
62 


THE  KING  OF  MOO 

J\/fE  an'  tn'  King  o'  th'  Island  o'  Moo 
*•  '  •*•          Settin    beneath  a  tree; 
Laughin    an    talkin   as  folk' II  do  — 
Talkin    an    takin'  a  drink  or  two  — 
Spitfire*  out  inter  th'  lagoon  blue  — 
This  sez  th'  King  ter  me: 

"Goo!" 

That's  all  'e  sez  ter  me : 
"Goo!" 

Oh,  fer  charmin'  conversation  just  give  me  th'  King  o' 

Moo, 
For  when  th'  King's  a-talkin'  there's  no  talkin'  you  kin 

do. 

'E  ain't  so  strong  on  argyment ;  on  words  Vs  mighty  shy, 
But  'e  never  tells  'is  'is'try  an'  'e  never  tells  a  lie. 

'E  never  talks  no  politics;  'e  'asn't  none  ter  talk; 

An'  when  it  comes  ter  talkin'  shop  'is  tongue  is  apt  ter 

balk. 

'E  never  tries  no  punnin'  w'ich  you  cannot  see  the  point; 
An'  'e  never  tells  no  stories  with  th'  morals  outer  joint. 

'E  never  mentions  parents,  er  'is  kiddies,  er  'is  wife; 
'E  never  spoke  onkindly  o'  'is  neighbors  in  'is  life. 

63 


THE  KING  OF  MOO 

'E    couldn't    talk    religion,    fer    'e    don't    know    wot    it 

means  — 
'E  never  sprung  an  idea  that  wuz  wuth  a  hill  o'  beans. 

Oh,  fer  charmin'  conversation  just  give  me  th'  King  or 

Moo, 

Fer  'e  confines  'is  talkin'  to  th'  simple  word  o'  "  Goo !  "" 
'E   doesn't   know   my   langwidge   an'   on    'is  I'm   sorter 

shy  — 
An'  so  we  gits  along  an'  lets  th'  world  go  whizzin'  by. 

Me  an   th'   King  o'  th'  Island  oJ  Moo 

Speakin    opinions  free; 
Never  no  argyin'  'twixt  us  two ; 
Laughin    an    takin    a  drink  er  two  — 
Spittin   out  inter  th'  lagoon  blue  — 
An    sez  th'  King  ter  me: 

"Goo!" 

That's  all  'e  sez  ter  me: 
"Goo!" 


64 


"  GHOSTS  " 

THERE'S  a  dead  white  boat  in  th'  Harbor, 
There's  some  dead  white  folks  on  deck; 
An'  'er  bloomin'  flag's  a  familiar  rag 
'At  brings  a  clutch  to  th'  neck. 

But  it's  only  a  ghost; 
With  th'  shades  o'  a  host 
O'  things  you've  left  behind; 
A  spirit  white  o'  a  lost  delight 
An'  you  must  see  it  blind. 

Oh,  th'  dead  white  folks  is  laughin' 
You  can  'ear  their  voices  clear; 

But  th'  dead  white  boat's  a  ghost  afloat 
From  th'  Port  o'  Another  Year. 

It's  only  a  shade 

So  be  not  afraid ; 

It's  seeking  for  nothin'  here; 

An'  you  needn't  hide, 

It'll  go  with  th'  tide 

To  th'  Port  o'  Another  Year. 


THE  PRINCE  CONSORT 

HO !     Hi'm  th'  Chief  Adwiser  ter  a  Sub-Queen  o'  th' 
Kaiser - 
Wich  'er  name  is  Bambaloozo,  an'  she  rules  th'  'Ogan 

Group ; 
(You  will   get  it  she's  a  lady  —  an'   'er  'ide  is  ruther 

shady)  — 

But  Hi  'ad  ter  be  'er  'usband  or  she'd  put  me  in  th* 
soup! 

Hi  didn't  mean   ter  land   'er;   Hi'm  an  hinnercent  by 
stander, 
When  she  turns  'er  glims  hupon  me  an'  she  rolls  'er 

hye  an'  sighed. 
Then  she  signs  she  loves  me  dearly,  an'  she  hintermates 

quite  clearly 

That  Hi'd  better  be  contented  or  she'd  'ave  me  stewed 
or  fried ! 

So    Hi'm   th'    Chief   Adwiser   ter   a   Sub-Queen    o'    th' 

Kaiser  — 
(Hi'd  turn  me  Kingdom  Hinglish,  but  Hi  doesn't  'ave 

th'  say). 
Fer  it  seems  th'   Prince  Consorter  'asn't  got  th'  say  'e 

orter  — 

So  Hi'm  'tendin'  ter  me  bizness  an'  Hi  don't  try  gittin' 
gay. 

66 


SONGS  OF  THE  SERVICE 


T 


ff  TAKING  ON  ' 

H'  sergeant  sez:     "  Take  off  yer  clothes  "  - 

(Me!     Wot's  bashful!     Ow!) 
But  if  I  must  I  must,  I  s'pose  — 
(No  use  raisin'  er  row.) 
Sez  he:     "You  read  these  riggers  here! 
"  Eyes  O.  K.     Now  how's  yer  ear? 
"  What's  yer  hite  —  git   on   that   scale  — 
"Holy  Moses!     Yer  a  whale! 
;'  That's  all  right  —  I  guess  you  can 
"  Make  a  fust  class  fightin'  man !  " 

Th'  sawbones  punched  me  a  couple  o'  jabs  — 

(Me,  wot's  naked!     Ow!) 
In  th'  ribs  a  couple  o'  stabs  — 

("  There!  "  sez  he,  "  That's  how!  ") 
Then  he  purses  up  his  lips  — 
Belts  me  a  couple  in  'midships  — 
"  Searg,"  sez  he,     "I   guess  we  can 
"  Take  this  feller  fer  Uncle  Sam  — 
"  Put  on  yer  clothes  there,  boy,  you  am 
"  A  fust  class  fightin'  man." 

Now,"  sez   Searg.      "  Yer  pedigree  "  ; 

(Me,  that  flustered,  Oh!) 
"  Everything  you  tell  ter  me  — 

("  'Cause  I  wanter  know.") 
69 


"  TAKING     ON  " 

"  Where  you  from  an'  also  why  — 

"  When  you  wuz  young  why  didn't  you  die? 

"  Whose  yer  'cestors  anyway? 

"  D'ye  know  enough  ter  draw  yer  pay? 

"  Take  this  oath !     Hoi'  up  yer  han'  — 

"  Now!     Yer  a  fust  class  fightin'  man!  " 

Out  at  th'  fort  sez  they  ter  me  — 

(Me,  wot's  mustered  in!) 

"We'll  teach  you  things,  you  lubber;     See! 
("  Yer  troubles  jest  begin.") 

"  Wot'd  you  do  'fore?     Carry  th'  hod? 

"Here!     You  jine  that  awkward  squad! 

"Walk  like  this  an'  walk  like  that! 

"  Can't  you  see  now  where  yer  at? 

"  Lord !     Don't  s'pose  we  ever  can 

"  Make  you  a  fust  class  fightin'  man !  " 


70 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  BULLET 

LAYIN'  out  in   th'   rice  fields,   th'  mud   half  to  th' 
knees ; 

Hearing  th'  lizards  croakin'  up  in  th'  bamboo  trees, 
An'  all  around  th'  bushes  are  cloaked  in  th'  white  o'  th' 

mist  — 

Wot   is   that  noise   that  breaks  th'   spell?     Sh-h   there! 
Hist! 

"Pang!    Zing!     Oo-oo-oo-zipf " 
That's  th'  cry  o'  th'  rifle  ball, 
That's  th'  song  it  sings  ter  all  — 

"Pang!    Zing!    Oo-oo-oo-zip! " 
Hark  to  th'  song  o'  th'  bullet! 

A  flash  o'  light  in  th'  darkness  an'  all  is  quiet  again ; 
'Ceptin'  th'  lap  o'  th'  water  — "  Stop  whisperin'  there, 

you  men !  " 
Only  a  stray  shot  out  o'  th'  night  —  "  Lay  quiet  there, 

you  all !  " 
Hark!     Again  th'  voice  wells  out  in  th'  song  o'  th'  rifle 

ball! 

"  Ps-st!     Bing!     z-z-z-z-z-tzip!" 
That's  th'  tune  th'  rifle  sings 
Speedin'  a  note  on  Death's  black  wings  — 

"  fst-st!   Bing!    z-z-z-z-z-tzip!" 
Bow  low  to  th'  song  o'  th'  bullet! 
71 


THE     SONG      OF      THE     BULLET 

Th'  gray  dawn  slowly  shoves  it's  way  out  o'  th'  eastern 

sky  — 
"  Load  magazines !     Git   ready,   men !     Now  keep  them 

pieces  dry! 
Hold    that    line    there !     Steady,    all !  "     Nerves    drawn 

tensely  tight  — 
An'  out  ahead  th'  chorus  starts  as  th'  dawn  breaks  inter 

light  - 

ffPowf    P-owf    C-a-ck-c-a-ck-P-ow!" 
That's  th'  song  th'  rifle  ball 
Sings  in  chorus,  singin    all  — 

"  Pow!    P-ow!    C-a-ck-c-a-ck-P-ow!" 
Oh,  hark  to  th'  bullet  chorus! 

Chargin'  acrost  th'  rice  fields,  th'  water  splashin'  high ; 
"  Stop  dodgin'  there!     Don't  mind  th'  song  of  them  wot 

has  gone  by; 
Keep  close  ter  cover  but  go  ahead!     This  ain't  no  fancy 

drill! 
Aim  low!     Fire   fast,   you  shavetails!     An'   fire   at  yer 

own  sweet  will !  " 

"  Z-z-z-z-z-f     Pang!     Bap!     Pst-st-st!" 
That's  th'  key  o'  th'  bullet  song; 
That's  th'  tune;     "Here!     Move  along!" 

ff  Z-z-z-z-z-f     Pang!     Bap!     Pst-st-st!" 
Don't  mind  th'  song  o'  th'  bullet! 
72 


THE     SONG      OF      THE     BULLET 

Someone   down    there,   stretcher   men;    take   him    to   the 

rear ! 
"  Go    on!      Go    on!     Keep    firm',    men,    there    ain't    no 

stoppin'  here  — 
Swing   around   with   th'   left   o'   that   line  an'   make   fer 

that  trench  ahead  — 
There's  time  enough  in  the  afterwhile  ter  count  un  them 

wot's  dead!" 

"  Ps-st!    Bing!     Z-z-z-z-z-tzip!" 
That's  th'  dirge  o'  th'  rifle  ball; 
That's  th'  way  it  moans  fer  all  — 

"  Ps-st. (    Bing!     Z-z-z-z-z-tzip!  " 
Oh,  'ware  th'  song  o'  th'  bullet! 


73 


OUTPOST,  4  A.  M. 

ONS  v    th'  Morning  we  — 
Blessed  is  Reveille! 
I  takes  my  fight  in  ole  daylight 
An    after  Reveille! 

I  see  a  ghost  go  slippin'  by, 

I  see  him  through  th'  trees; 
I  hears  a  low,  sad,  mournful  cry 

Come  slidin'  down  th'  breeze! 
I  see  a  goblin'  squattin'  there 

An'  chirpin'  merrily  — 
Th'  mornin'  light's  a  blessed  sight  — 

An'  sweet  is  Reveille! 


Sons  o'  th1  Mornin  —  all; 
Sweet  is  th'  bugle  call! 
Th'  nightshades  start  an    ghosts  depart 
When  they  hears  that  bugle  bawl! 

I  see  them  trees  take  funny  shapes, 

I  see  them  move  around ; 
I  see  some  big,  fat,  monstrous  apes 

A-creepin'  on  th'  ground. 

74 


OUTPOST,    4    A.    M, 

I  see  tall  men  with  shiny  knives 
Come  slippin'  back  o'  me  — 

They  hike  away  at  break  o'  day  — 
Oh,  sweetest  Reveille! 

Son  o'  th'  Mornin —  Me! 
Oh,  blessed  Reveille! 
It  aint  so  hard  a-standin    guard 
Just  after  Reveille! 


75 


THE  LADIES  IN  THE  TRENCHES 

A    SOLDIER   SONG   OF    THE    SULU    ISLES 

IF    a    lady    wearin'     pantaloons    is    swingin'    wit'    a 
knife, 

Must  I  stop  an'  cross-examine  as  ter  sex? 
"  Air  you  Datto  Mudd,  his  ownself,  Ma'am,  or  air  you 

jest  his  wife? 

Kindly  answer  'fore  I  reach  yer  solar  plex." 
If  a  lady  wearin'  britches  is  a-hidin'  in  th'  ditches, 

An'  she  itches  fer  me  ears  as  souvenirs, 
Must  I  arsk  before  I  twist  'er:     "  Air  you  Miss  or  air 

you  Mister?  " 
How  shell  a  bashful  man  decide  th'  dears? 

CHORUS 

Ladies,  if  yer  wearin'  o'  yer  husband's  pantaloons  — 

(Mercy!  how  you  makes  a  soldier  blush!) 
You  will  have   ter  take  th'  chances  w'ich   is  tagged  to 

husband's  pantses, 

Or  stay  ter  home  an'  make  th'  babies  hush! 
We  ain't  no  clarryvoyants ;  if  yer  wearin'  pantaloons 
We  must  take  you  as  we  find  you  when  th'  guns  begin 

their  tunes; 

An'   we   cannot  be  caressin'   though   you   puzzle  us  dis 
tressing 
When  yer  wearin'  o'  yer  husband's  pantaloons. 


THE     LADIES     IN      THE      TRENCHES 

We  couldn't  pick  no  ladies  when  we  charged  th'  moun 
tain  height; 

(We  wuz  busy  dodgin'  bolo-knife  an'  kreese.) 
But  if  them  folks  wuz  females,  w'y,  they  made  a  bully 

fight, 

An'  I  didn't  hear  no  argyments  fer  peace. 
They  was  cuttin',  they  wuz  stabbin',  an'  a  party  started 

jabbin' 

At  me  Adam's  apple;  likewise  at  me  eye; 
Should  I  stop  fer  'pologizin'  ter  a  person  so  surprisin'  ? 
If  a  lady,  then  her  garments  told  a  lie. 

CHORUS. — Ladies,  if  yer  wearin',  etc. 

If  a  lady  wearin'  pantaloons  is  in  a  soldier  jam, 

An'  she's  tryin'  most  distinct  ter  take  yer  life, 
Just  tell  her  that  yer  needed  by  yer  own  dear  Uncle  Sam, 

An'  ax  her  pardon  as  you  dodge  her  knife! 
When  she  cuts  an'  jabs  so  spritely,  try  ter  speak  to  her 
politely, 

An'  excuse  yerself  as  nicely  as  you  can ; 
But  you  mustn't  take  no  chances  an'  don't  always  judge 
by  pantses  — 

'Cause  you  cannot  tell  but  wot  she  is  a  man ! 

CHORUS. — Ladies,  if  yer  wearin',  etc. 

It  may  appear  ungallant,  but  I  haven't  learned  ter  see 
Th'  difference  in  a  man  or  maiden's  clout, 

77 


THE     LADIES     IN     THE     TRENCHES 

If  both  air  wearin'  trousers,  w'y,  I  think  you  will  agree 
A  bashful  man  can  hardly  sort  'em  out. 

If  she  doesn't  wear  her  dresses  must  I  stop  fer  makin' 

guesses, 
Wit'  a  bolo-knife  a-swingin'  round  me  nose? 

An'  it  causes  me  ter  worry  when  I'm  in  a  tearin'  hurry, 
But  I  have  ter  do  me  judgin'  by  their  clothes. 


BUGLE  CALLS 

TH'  light  is  slowly  dawnin'  an'  th'  night  has  turned  to 
mornin'  — 
Rout  'em  out  an'  make  'em  rub  their  gummy,  sleepy 

eyes. 

Don't  yer  hear  them  bugle  calls  a-givin'  friendly  warn- 
in' — 

Don't  yer  hear  'em  tearin'  out  a  tune  ter  reach  th' 
skies  — 

Playin',  sayin' — 

"  I  can't  git  'em  up, 
I  can't  git  'em  up, 
I  can't  git  'em  up 
In  th'  mornin'  " 

Don't  yer   hear   that   bugle   song,    th'    day   is   shore   a- 

bornin' — 

Hop   inter  yer  britches  —  all ;   inter  line  in  th'  barrack 
hall- 

"  I  can't  git  'em  up, 
I  can't  git  'em  up, 
I  can't  git  'em  up  a-tall !  " 

Hear  th'  cooks  a-shoutin'  fer  th'  bean  pot  is  a  spoutin' — • 
Grab  yer  kits  an'  hurry  up  an'  git  inter  th'  line. 
79 


BUGLE      CALLS 

Take  yer  share  o'   rations  never  kickin'   or  a-doubtin'— 
Hear  th'  bugle  tellin'  you  th'  time  has  come  ter  dine  — 

Playin',  sayin' — 

"  Soupy,  soupy,  soupy, 
Without  a  single  bean, 
Porky,  porky,  porky, 
Without  a  streak  o'  lean  " — 

Don't  yer  ast  fer  "  seconds  "  or  yer  sure  ter  git  a-cloutin', 
When  th'  bugle's  hootin'  then  th'  cooks  is  feelin'  mean  — 

"  Soupy,  soupy,  soupy, 
Without  a  single  bean, 
Porky,  porky,   porky, 
An'  nary  streak  o'   le  —  an  " — 

Drill   dust   on   yer  shoulders  an'   yer   shoes   feel   full   o' 

boulders, 

Sleep  a-tuggin'  at  yer  eyes  before  th'  recall  blows. 
Check  roll  —  you  must  answer  prompt  —  an'  don't  you 

sass  yer  olders  — 

Don't  you   hear  th'   bugle   song  compellin'   sweet   re 
pose  — 

Playin',  sayin'  — 

"  Lights  out  — 

Lights out  — 

Lights —out!" 

80 


BUGLE      CALLS 

Douse  yer  glims  an'  go  ter  sleep  you  ornery,  lazy  soldiers, 
Hear  th'  bugle  tellin'  you  ter  cover  up  yer  toes  — 

"  Go  to  sleep  — 
Go  —  to  —  sleep  — 
Go to sleep!" 


81 


THE  CAVALRY 

NOW  look  away  you  doughboy  men  an'  stick  to  them 
trenches  tight; 

Peek,  if  you  wanter  over  yer  dirt  an'  see  a  purty  fight. 
Look  to  yer  cinches,  one  an'  all,  here  goes  th'  fightin' 

crew, 

Hoo-ki!     Hang    onter    yer    hat  —  th'    cavalry's    comin' 
through ! 

It's  rat-tit y -tat  on  th'  dusty  road, 
Here's  where  th'  devil'U  git  a  load  — 
Hoo-ki!     An    th'  air  is  blue 
When  th'  cavalry's  comin    through! 

There'   some   wot   likes    th'    doughboy   line,    some   likes 

th'  battery, 

Some  is  stuck  on  th'  engineers  —  for  mine  th'  cavalry. 
With  yer  legs  a-straddle  a  good  ole  horse  —  a  horse  wot's 

kind  an'  true  — 
Then  it's  hoo-ki!     Hang  onter  yer  hat  —  th'  cavalry's 

comin'  through! 

Clackety-dack;  spit  out  th'  dust, 
Foller  yer  leader  if  you  bust  — 
Wee-ow-wow!     There's    a    hullabaloo 
When  th'  cavalry's  comin    through! 
82 


THE      CAVALRY 

This  "fight  on  feet"  ain't  just  my  style;  feel  safer  on 

a  horse 
When  I  feel  him  quiver  beneath  my  knees  an'  th'  captain 

shows  th'  course. 
Six-gun  in  hand  an'  a  yell  in  my  teeth,  then  I  knows 

what  to  do  — 
Hoo-ki !     Hang    onter    yer   hat  —  th'    cavalry's    comin' 

through ! 

Ta-ta-ra  th'  bugle  sings  — 
Feels  fsff  you  was   on'  wings  — 
Yee-ow-wowf     An     then   wa-hoo! 
When  thf  cavalry's  comin    through! 


THE  FILIPINO  SCOUT 

KNEW  him   up  in   North  Luzon,    when    he    was 
•*      mustered  in 

(Chased  him  'round  the  rice-fields  till  my  nerves  had 

gone  to  wreck) , 

His  shirt-tail  flappin'  freely  an'  his  panties  rather  thin; 
Meek  an'  lowly  critter  with  his  shoes  hung  'round  his 
neck. 

But  now  he's  me  brother  in  arms, 

A-wearin'   the  same  uniform; 
But,  barrin'  the  clothes  an'  barrin  the  gun, 
Hie's  the  very  same  feller  I  kept  on  the  run; 

An'  I  wonder  where  he  would  be  at  — 

Not  doubtin'  his  courage,  at  that; 
He  might  be  all  right  if  it  came  to  a  fight  — 

Still,  I  wonder  where  he  would  be  at! 

I've   seen   him   move   to   action    'gainst   his  people,    d'ye 

mind 
(Now,   I'm   no   roastin'   critic,    an'   speak   for  myself 

alone)  ; 
He  fought  'em  pretty  handy  —  with  the  white  men  clost 

behind  — 
But  I'm  a  bit  suspicious  o'  the  guy  who  fights  his  own! 

84 


THE  FILIPINO  SCOUT 

An'  now  he's  me  brother  in  arms, 

A-\vearin'   the  same   uniform; 
But  I  rigger  he's  fightin'  his  own  family; 
Why  wouldn't  he  turn  an'  go  peltin'  at  me, 

Like  he  useter  do  out  in  the  sun, 

When  his  commonest  gait  was  a  run? 
I'm  curious  to  know,  if  it  came  to  a  show, 

Which  way  he'd  be  aimin'  his  gun! 

I've  known  him  since  he  saw  the  States;  his  chest  ex 
pansion  wide 
(His  photos  o'  the  white  girls  wot  he  writes  to  every 

boat  — 
Your  sister  or  your  sweetheart — wore    agin   his  greasy 

hide), 

His   swagger   an'   his  pidgin    talk,   an'   collars   'round 
his  throat. 

Oh,  yes,  he's  me  brother  in  arms, 

A-wearin'  the  same  uniform ; 
But,  barrin'  the  clothes  an'  barrin'  the  gun; 
He's  the  very  same  feller  I  kept  on  the  run ; 

Who  sniped  me  by  day  an'  by  night ; 

Who  never  stood  once  for  a  fight; 
I'm  curious  to  know  if  it  came  to  a  show 

Just  where  to  expect  him  to  light! 


"HIKIN" 

"Hep!     Hep!     Hayfoot!     Strawfoot! 
Belly  full  o'  bean  soup  —  Hep!  " 

—  Ancient  lay. 

GRAVEL  agitators  on  a  long,  hard  hike  — 
Hep! 
Kickin'  up  an  orful  dust  along  the  dreary  pike  — 

Hep! 

Bay'nit  scabbard  draggin'  o'  yer  foot-tracks  out; 
Mouth  a-pantin'  open  like  a  landed  mountain  trout: 
Try  ter  lag  a  little,  an'  you  hear  the  sergeant  shout: 

Hep! 

Hep!     Hep!     Murphy  git  in  step; 
The  hod  ain't  on  yer  shoulder  now,  so 
Hep!    Hep!    Hep! 

Ammunition  weighin'  'bout  a  quarter  of  a  ton  — 

Hep! 
Blanket  roll  a-chafin',  an'  yer  hand  stuck  to  yer  gun — 

Hep! 

Sweat  a-diggin'  furrows  in  the  dust  around  yer  neck; 
Mouth  is  full  o'  sand,  an'  in  yer  ears  about  a  peck; 
Try  ter  slack  a  little,  an'  the  sergeant  sings  his  check: 

Hep! 

Hep!     Hep!     Lengthen  out  the  step! 
Kick  yer  legs  out  faster,  there,  an' 

Hep!    Hep!    Hep! 
86 


"  HI  KIN' ' 

Cavalry  goes  slidin'  by  like  we  was  standing  still  — 

Hep! 
Sloppin'  in  their  saddles  an'  they  guy  us  as  we  drill  — 

Hep! 

Wait  until  you  see  the  column  goin'  inter  camp, 
See  us  hit  the  pillows,  then  it's  them  wot's  got  ter  tramp, 
Guardin'  our  sweet  slumber  an'  a-shakin'  in  the  damp  — 

Hep! 

Hep !     Hep !     Liven  up  that  step ! 
Yer  all  a-walkin'  half-asleep,  so 

Hep!    Hep!    Hep! 


87 


rf  GIDDAP!  " 
(BALLAD  OF  THE  TEST  RIDE) 

I'M  walkin'  me  post  at  the  guard  house,  an'  thinkin' 
o'  nothin'  at  all, 
When  I  sees  me  capting  acrost  the  parade  in  front  o'  the 

officers'  hall ; 
He's  steppin'   along  remorseful  like,  an'  he's  sore,   like 

a  hoss,   up   front, 

An'  fur  as  I  am,  I  feel  fer  him,  fer  I  hearin'  me  capting 
grunt : 

"Giddap!" 

I  reckon  he's  somewhat  stiff  in  his  pegs; 
(They's  a  V-shaped  slant  to  the  set  o'  his  legs) 
An'  he's  walkin'  along  like  steppin'  on  eggs  — 
(Hooray  for  the  doughboy  hossman!) 

They's   a   stringhalt   limp    in   his   off    front   leg   an'   his 

caisson's  hard  to  steer; 
He   favors   the   nigh   hind   hoof   a  bit   an'  he's  cautious 

like  to  the  rear: 
They's  a  cold,  hard  look  in  his  mild  blue  eyes,  an'  he 

sweats  like  a  fretted  Turk  — 
An'  his  words  come  floatin'  acrost  to  me  as  I  notice  his 

lips  at  work: 

"Giddap!" 
88 


"  GIDDAP  " 

But  he  did  his  thirty-odd  miles  to-day 
Atop  of  a  hard-mouthed,  flint-backed  bay, 
An'  he's  tested   down  to  the  bone,   they  say  — 
(Hooray  for  the  doughboy  hossman!) 

I  reckon  as  how  he  dreams  "  Giddap,"  and  boots  hisself 

in  his  sleep ; 
An'   barrin'    the   blisters  an'    stove-up    pins   he   probably 

riggers  it  cheap; 
But  the  Lord  didn't  measure  a  doughboy's  seat   fer  to 

fit  a  McClellan  tree  - 
W'ich  I  reckon  you  ast  my  capting  now  you'll  find  he 

agrees  with  me; 

"Giddap!" 

They  tell  me  the  test  ride's  highly  prized 

By    the    war    department,     but     them    trees    ain't 

sized  — 
An'  a  doughboy's  trousers  ain't  galvanized  - 

(Hooray  for  the  doughboy  hossman!) 


THE  WAGE  OF  THE  FIGHTING  MEN 

TTE  warn't  no  sich  a  feller  as  deserves  an  epitaph, 
•*•  •*•    He  were  jest  a  reg'lar  soldier  an'  he  fell  in  duty's 

path, 
He   stood   along  o'   others  an'   he   took  his  knocks  an' 

slaps, 
(An'  he  got  his  full  three  volleys  an'  th'  same  ole  taps.) 

"Route  step!  March!"  For  yer  leavin  of  a  grave, 
He  didn't  have  so  much  to  give  but  all  he  had  he  gave; 
An  a  soldier  has  been  paid  in  full  when  death  about  him 

wraps, 
(An   he  gets  his  full  three  volleys  an    th'  same  ole  taps.) 

He  were  a  fust  rate  feller  an'  a  bunkie  onct  o'  mine, 
I  filled  th'  gap  his  droppin'  out  made  in  th'  firm'  line. 
Hero?     Nope!     Can't  say  he  was  —  one  o'  th'  reg'lar 

chaps  — 
(An'  he  got  his  full  three  volleys  an'  th'  same  ole  taps.) 

" Ashes  be  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust''  th'  chaplain  said 
When  he  spoke  his  little  piece  above  th'  soldier  wot  was 

dead; 
Then    they    auctioned    off    his    clothin     an     his    other 

soldier  traps, 

(For  he  got  his  full  three  volleys  an    th'  same  ole  taps.) 

90 


THE     WAGE     OF     THE    FIGHTING    MEN 

That  is  th'  way  you  all  must  go  a-fightin'  for  th'  flag, 
Just  put  yer  best  foot  foremost  an'  don't  never  let  it  lag; 
An'  if  you  foller  out  th'  lines  th'  War  Department  maps 
(W'y  you'll  get  yer  full  three  volleys  an'  th'  same  ole 
taps.) 

"'Bout    face!     March!"     An     let    th'    bandmen    play; 
'F  you  worry    about  a  man   wot's  gone  yer  hair  II    soon 

be  gray; 
Take    up   some    other   subject,   for   th'   flag   still   gayly 

flaps  — 
(He  got  his  full  three  volleys  an    th'  same  ole 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SADDLE 


H 


UNK  of  meat  an    raw  pertater, 
Sop  —  an    'tater-sop  —  an    'tater! 


Mornin'  is  peelin'  her  covers 

An'  grabbin'  her  garb  o'  day; 
Out  with  them  Morryphus  lovers, 

The  column   is  up  an'  away! 
Away  on  the  long,  hard  hikin' 

To  meet  the  dark  in  the  west; 
Straight  to  the  night-time  strikin' — 

Where  mebbe  there'll  be  some  rest. 

ff  Hunk  o'  meat  an    raw  pertater, 
Sop  —  an    'tater-sop  —  an    'later!  " 

Once  with  the  doughies  an'  field-guns, 

Once  with  the  coast  guns,  too; 
(Plattsburg  an'  all  o'  the  dead  ones — ) 

Now  with  the  workin'  crew. 
Up  at  the  peep  o'  the  mornin', 

Right  at  the  bugle's  squeal  — 
Hellity-bent  at  the  warnin' — 

Stables  —  the  ghost  o'  a  meal. 

"  Hunk  o'  meat  an'  raw  pertater, 
Sop  —  an   'tater-sop  —  anf  'taler!  " 
92 


THE     SONG      OF      THE     SADDLE 

Tails  o'  the  bosses  draggin' 

An'  a  trail   o'   dust  behind, 
Down  in  the  saddles  saggin'  — 

Yee-ho!     An'  the  capting  's  blind. 
Miles  o'  the  way  behind  you, 

Miles  o'  the  way  before, 
An'  none  to  find,  or  find  you  — 

(They  tell  you  that  this  is  war!) 

"  Hunk  oJ  meat  an    raw  pertater, 
Sop  —  an    'tater-sop  —  an   'tater!  " 

Bellies  so  loose  they  're  a-flappin' 

An'  thinkin'  yer  throat  is  cut  — 
Coolin'  night  breezes  snappin'  - 

Wake  up,  now,  you  pig-headed  mutt! 
Oh,  for  the  life  o'  the  saddle, 

With  nothin'  to  do  but  to  ride, 
Always  upon  the  skedaddle  — 

Gosh!     That  recruitin'  man  lied! 

"  Hunk  o    meat  an    raw  pertater, 
Sop  —  an    'tater-sop  —  an   'tater!  " 


93 


THE  SKY  MARINES 

("Private  Jones,  B   Company,  —  Regiment,  is  assigned 
to  duty  with  the  balloon  corps."  —  Army  Orders.) 

TT 7ITH  a  dynamite  bomb  in  me  hand, 

A-sailin    the  deep-blue  sky, 
You  II  reckon  with  me  on  land  or  on  sea 
Sometime  in  the  sweet  bye  an    bye. 

Put  away  yer  coast  defense,  an'  send  yer  boats  to  dock; 
Muster  out  yer  armies,  which  the  same  is  crawlin' 

ants. 
Hide  yer  little  cities,  which  you  thought  was  built  on 

rock; 
Stow  yer  apparatus,  for  you  have  n't  got  a  chance. 

With  a  dynamite  bomb  in  me  hand, 

A-shoutin    ahoy   to    the   moon, 
A  dinky  valve-stop  'twixt  a  thousand-foot  drop, 

In  a  baggy  ole  war  balloon. 

Onct  I  was  a  soldier  with  a  rifle  in  me  hand  ; 

( Stop  yer  moldin'  bullets,  for  you  '11  need  'em  never 

more.) 
Thought  I  was  a  wonder,  which  no  doubt  I  was  —  on 

land; 

Now  I  knows  what  horror  is  a-thinkin'  of  a  war. 
94 


THE    SKY    MARINES 

With  a  dynamite  bomb  in  me  hand, 

Oh,  pity  the  earth  an    the  sea! 
I  open  me  hand,  and  there  wont  be  no  land, 

An    mebbe  there  wont  be  no  sea. 

Rent  a  few  tornadoes,  if  yer  thinkin'  of  a  fight; 

Hire  the  rain  an'  lightnin',  an'  go  buy  the  wrath  o' 

Him. 
Bribe  the  day  to  stay  away,  an'  then  corrupt  the  night; 

Even  then  yer  chances  'g'in'  our  hand  is  mighty  slim. 

With  a  dynamite  bomb  in  me  hand, 
I'm  a  watchin    the  shiftin    scenes; 

I  grin  at  the  crowds,  an    the  drippy  ole  clouds 
Make  a  path  for  the  sky  marines. 

Put  away  yer  armies  now,  an'  walk  the  ways  o'  peace; 
What's  the  use  o'  playin'  while  I'm  slammin'  round 

the  skies? 

Spend  yer  coin  for  silk  an'  gas,  an'  quiet  will  increase; 
Let  yer  war-boats   founder,    an'    give   me   the   Nobel 
prize. 

With  a  dynamite  bomb  in  me  hand, 

I'm  watchinf  the  quiet  increase; 
I'm  a  reg'lar  dove  a-floatin   above 

An'  argyin    strongly  for  peace. 


95 


THE  GLORY  OF  WAR 


makes  th'  S°ldier  man  desert?  "  th>  Co1" 
onel  ast  his  nurse; 

(Th'  same  it  was  a   He-Male   who  was  mindin'   o' 

th'  kid); 
"  Th'   war   department   tells   me   that    it's   daily    gettin' 

worse  — 
"  My  dog  rob  friend,  I  wisht  that  you  would  find  out 

why  it's  did. 
"  When  you  get  through  a-swabbin'  down  th'  missus'  kit 

chen  floor, 
"  An'  emptyin'  out  th'  kitchen  slops  an'  answerin'  o'  th' 

door  — 
"  I    wisht   you'd   kindly   ascertain   why   men   won't   stay 

to  war  — 
"  'Cause  it's  worryin'  th'  noble  war  department." 

Left!     Step!     Left!     Step!     Why  do  men  desert? 
Thirteen  casers  every   month,  pants  an    hat  an    shirt; 
Workin    hours  easy;  only  ten  an   twent'  an   thirt'  — 
Say!     What  makes  th'  soldiers  quit  th'  army? 

"  You  don't  presume,"  th'  Colonel  said,  "  they're  wantin' 

o'  more  pay? 

("An'  don't  forget  to  give  that  lawn  another  healthy 
roll)  ; 

96 


THE      GLORY     OF     WAR 

"  Oh,  that  would  be  ingratitood;  we  feed   'em  thrice  a 

day  — 
("An',   by  th'  by,   please  carry  in  a  ton   or  two  o' 

coal ) . 
"  Now  after  you  have  finished   o'  your  little  household 

chore, 
"  You  might  dig  up  that  garden,  plant  a  peck  o'  seed  or 

more; 
"  An'  then  I  wisht  you'd  ascertain  why  men  won't  stay 

to  war  — 
;<  'Cause  it's  worryin'  th'  noble  war  department." 

Left!     Step!     Left!     Step!     Pick  an    shovel  drill  — 
Target  range  in  puppy  tents  an    rain  an    fever  chill; 
Thirteen  casers  every  month  an   glory  fit  to  kill  — 
Say!     What  makes  th'  soldiers  quit  th'  army? 

"  It's  hard  enough,"   th'   Colonel  said,   "  for  officers  to 

live 
("I   wisht  you'd  beat  them  carpets  well  an'  fix  th' 

heat  machine.) 
'  Th'  hired  girls  form  a  union  an'  their  scale  we- have  to 

give  — 
"  It's  nice  we  have  you  soldiers  for  to  keep  our  houses 

clean. 
"  Now   kindly  cuff  my   charger  up  an'   lock   th'   stable 

door; 

97 


THE     GLORY     OF     WAR 

"  An'  don't  you  soil  your  uniform ;  inspection  comes  at 

four  — 
"  Then  please  go  ascertain  for  me  why  men  won't  stay 

at  war  — 
"  'Cause  it's  worryin'  th'  noble  war  'department." 

Left!     Step!     Left!     Step!     Off  we  go  to  war; 
Hear  th'  mowers  rattle  an   th'  coal  chutes  awful  roar! 
Recollect  them  pictures  on  th'  'cruitin    office  door? 
Say!     What  makes  th'  soldiers  quit  th'  army? 

Th'    soldier  man   must  be   a  man   o'   height   an'    grand 

physique, 

They  study  up  his  character  before  they  let  him  pass  — 
Must  read  an'  write  his  English,  an'  th'  same  he  has  to 

speak ; 

Must  think  a  little  for  himself  an'  show  a  lot  o'  class. 
In  every  other  walk  o'  life  there's  room  for  thousands 

more 

O'  men  o'  caliber  like  him ;  they  grab  'em  at  the  door  — 
Now  mebbe  that's  a  reason  why  th'  men  won't  stay  at 

at  war — 
On  th'  salary  o'  th'  noble  war  department. 

Left!     Step!     Left!     Step!     Sound  a  jubilee, 
Dishpans  for  our  cymbals  an    a  dust-rag  wavin    free; 
Shoulder  brooms  an    mop-sticks  when  they  blow  th'  re 
veille  — 

Say!     What  makes  th'  soldiers  quit  th'  army? 
98 


PRACTICE  MARCHING 

BIG   Bill   Taft   one   mornin'    rose   a-feelin'   somewhat 
bad, 

He  thinks  about  them  soldier  boys  a-restin'. 
He  sez:     "  Their  muscles  will  git  stiff,  Oh,  ain't  it  very 

sad 

To  see  them  soldier  fellers  all  siestin' ! 
Ho!     Issue  them  an  order  to  take  a  practice  march; 
Their  legs'll   soon   be   gittin'   stiff  like   they  wuz  caked 

with  starch ; 

Ho!     Issue  them  an  order  an'  tell  'em  for'ard  march  — 
It's  fierce  th'  way  them  soldiers  boys  are  restin' !  " 

So  it's  fourteen  miles  to  Some  Place 

An'  fourteen  to  th'  Fort; 
So  shoulder  arms  an'  knapsacks 

An'  order  arms  an'  port. 
It's  fourteen   miles  to   Nowhere 

An'  grub  a  runnin'  short, 
But  think  o'  what  we're  learnin'  practice  march- 


in 


'  ! 


'Twuz  Teddy  got  th'  idea  when  things  were  gittin'  slow; 

He  wonders  'bout  them  soldier  boys  a-restin'. 
He  sez:     "  I  think  we  oughter  have  an  exhibition,  O 

Them  soldiers'  blood'll  likely  be  congestin'. 
Ho!  Issue  them  an  order  to  mobilize  at  once; 
Ho !  Issue  them  an  order,  we  will  have  maneuver  stunts; 

99 


PRACTICE     MARCHING 

Ho!     Issue  them  an  order  an'  all  th'  army  grunts; 

For  it's  fierce  th'  way  them  soldier  boys  are  restin' !  " 

So  it's  ninety  miles  to  That  Place 

Maneuvers  goin'  on. 
It's  ninety  miles  to  This  Place, 

An'  summer  days  are  gone. 
It's  phoney  fights  an'  hikin' 

An'  rollin'  out  at  dawn  — 
But  think  o'  what  we're  learnin'  practice  march- 
in'! 

From  New  Year's  down  to  Christmas  there  isn't  much 
to  do 

Exceptin'  in  th'  barracks  sorter  restin'. 
Unless  someone  gits  thinkin'  —  'bout  every  day  or  two 

About  them  soldier  fellers  all  siestin'. 
Then  issues  forth  an  order  to  do  a  practice  drill, 
A  practice  camp,  a  practice  hike,  a  practice  how  to  kill; 
Or  issues  forth  an  order  to  practice  to  be  still  — 

It's  fierce  th'  way  them  soldiers  boys  are  restin'. 

Then  up  a  hill  an'  down  a  hill 

Th'  same  as  Bonypart; 
Five  hundred  miles  a  year  to  do, 

So  make  a  healthy  start; 
Th'  officers  must  do  it  to  — 
Oh,  cheer  up  heavy  heart! 
An'  think  o'  what  we're  learnin'  practice  march- 
in'! 

100 


AUGUST  13  —  '9%" 

When  the  American  troops  were  attacking  Manila, 
August  13,  1898,  the  band  of  a  volunteer  regiment 
(First  Colorado)  played  "  There'll  Be  a  Hot  Time  in 
the  Old  Town  To-night." 

THERE'S  a  sting  to  the  breeze  of  the  morning, 
There's  a  lash  in  the  breath  of  the  sea; 
And  hark !     The  bells,  the  convent  bells 

Chant  a  mournful  litany. 
There's  a  gloomy  mist  on  the  rice  fields 

That  softens  the  morning  glare  — 
And  mark  the  shells !     The  shrapnel  shells  — 
As  a  band  strikes  up  an  air: 

"  Come  along  git  you  ready 
Git  you  brand,  brand  new  gown; 
For  there's  gw'ine  to  be  a  meeting 
In  that  good,  good  ole  town." 

There's  a  slippery  dew  on  the  rifles 
Where  a  trembling  hand  clings  fast ; 

There's  a  plaintive  whine  as  the  firing  line 
Churns  the  mud  in  hurrying  past. 
101 


"AUGUST      13—98" 

A  break  in  the  mist-curtained  morning 

And  a  shell  begins  a  croon  — 
Then  a  rising  yell  and  a  blast  of  Hell 

As  a  band  strikes  up  a  tune: 

fe  Where  you  knows  everybody 
Everybody  knows  you; 
Bring  along  you  rabbit's  foot 
Drive  away  hoodoo'' 

There's  a  blur  of  a  landscape  flying, 

There's  a  dream  of  a  sky  stained  blue; 
There's  a  widening  breach  as  the  field  guns  screech 

And  the  firing  line  slides  through. 
Oh,  the  convent  bells  are  ringing 

In  a  fervent,  broken  prayer  ; 
And  aching  throats  re-echo  the  notes 

When  the  band  strikes  up  the  air: 

"  When  you  hear  them  bells  go  ting-ga-ling, 
All  join  hands  and  sweetly  we  will  sing; 
When  the  verse  am  through  the  chorus  all  join  in 
There'll  be  a  hot  time  in  the  old  town  to-night!" 

Oh,  the  boats  are  long  in  harbor 
And  the  guns  have  gathered  rust; 

And  those  who  stayed  and  were  tenderly  laid 
With  a  prayer;  are  "  dust  to  dust." 
102 


"AUGUST    13  —  98" 

Oh,  the  forts  are  silent  ruins 
And  the  shells  no  longer  croon ; 

But  a  memory  deep  is  aroused  from  sleep 
When  the  band  strikes  up  a  tune : 

"Please,  Oh,  please,  Oh,  do  not  let  me  fall; 
You're  all  mine  and  I  love  you  best  of  all; 
You  must  be  my  man  or  I'll  have  no  man  at  all 
There'll  be  a  hot  time  in  the  old  town  to-night! 

Oh,  the  nodding  palms  still  echo 

The  tune  that  the  band  once  played  ; 
And  the  whimpering  waves  sing  to  the  graves 

Of  the  men  on  the  grand  parade. 
Oh,  the  convent  bells  are  ringing 

Through  the  mists  of  the  morning  gray, 
And  the  breezes  croon  that  same  old  tune 

Which  still  floats  up  from  the  bay. 


103 


TO  THOSE  WHO  STAY 

\\7  E  are  nosing  out  the  harbor  with  the  shore-lights 

blinking  dim, 
And  the  women  in  the  cabins  bow  in  silent  thanks  to 

Him; 
We  are  slipping  down  the  channel  and  we'll  soon  be  far 

away  — 
Let  us  drink  a  toast  in  parting;  drink  to  those  who  have 

to  stay! 

See  the  lights  fade  in  the  darkness  as  we're  rising  to  the 

swell  ; 
Hear  the  sentries'  note  o'  gladness  as  they're  calling  their 

"All's  well!" 
But  along  the  shores  behind  us,  watching  us  who  slip 

away, 
Are  the   new  recruits  just  landed  —  are  the  ones  who 

have  to  stay. 

Oh,  the  years  of  foreign  service  that  the  army  must  de 
mand 

Ere  they  turn  the  soldiers  homeward  to  their  own  be 
loved  land! 

Drink  a  toast  to  them  in  parting  as  the  transport  swings 
away  — 

For  they'll  drink  to  us  in  future  when  it's  us  who  have 
to  stay! 

104 


BALLADS  OF  THE  BRAKE  BEAMS 


A  SONG  OF  THE  RAILS 

T  'M  roostin'  here  like  a  Shantycleer  on  a  rod  the  size 

-*•      o'  a  match, 

Wit'  an  open  view  on  either  side  an'  a  box-car  floor  fer  a 

thatch  ; 
An'  I  hopes  the  "  shack  "  don't  find  me,  fer  me  face  is  all 

he  could  punch 
As  I'm  beatin'  me  old  friend,  James  J.  Hill,  an'  eatin' 

his  ballast  fer  lunch! 

Oh,  the  ground  slips  by  like  a  river, 
An'  me  nerves  are  all  a-quiver  — 
Fer  I've  bin  out  on  a  sort  o'  a  bat  an'  the  rail-joints 

sing  to  me: 

"John  Barleycorn!     John  Barleycorn! 

He's  brought  you  where  you  are  — 

.   (Click-click /) 
You  pay  his  rates  an   ride  the  jr eights 

But  never  a  parlor  car. 
John  Barleycorn!     John  Barleycorn! 

A  hundred  thousand  men 
May  play  his  game,  but  end  the  same 

An    never  see  home  again!" 

Yep,  I'm  stickin'  here  like  a  sort  o'  a  leech  an'  the  iron 

is  cold  as  hate, 
While  the  wind  slides  t'rough  me  see-more  pants  in  a 

fashion  that's  sad  to  state ; 
107 


A      SONG      OF      THE     RAILS 

Still,  it  isn't  so  bad  as  a  passenger  deck  wit'  a  spark  to 

light  me  clothes  — 

An'  I'm  goin'  somewhere,  I  don't  know  where,  where- 
ever  this  freight  train  goes. 

But  the  ground  bobs  up  so  crazy 
That  me  mind  is  somewhat  hazy  — 
An'  I'm  hearin'  the  rail-joints  sing  a  song  I  never  have 
heard  before: 

"John  Barleycorn!     John  Barleycorn! 

You  may  beat  Hill  an'  Gould; 
But  John  collects  what  he  expects 

An   John  is  never  fooled. 
John  Barleycorn!     John  Barleycorn! 

A  rare  ole  soul  is  he; 
He  follows  fast  from  first  to  last 

Wit'  pals  like  you  an  me!" 

So   I'm   roostin'    here   cut   off  from   death  by   about   the 

length  o'  a  hair; 
At  least  I've  heard  that  it's  dangerous  here,  but  Death 

is  cheaper'n  fare. 
For  I  usually  has  to  hasten  along  wit'  a  busted  statute 

behind  — 

An'  any  ole  place  will  hold  me  now,  from  the  deck,  to 
pilot  or  "  blind." 

Oh,  the  ground  slips  by  so  easy, 
An'  me  perch  is  a  trifle  breezy  — 

I  reckon  I  must  be  gittin'  ole  when  the  rail-joints  sing 
to  me: 

1 08 


A      SONG      OF      THE     RAILS 

"John  Barleycorn!     John  Barleycorn! 

The  world  is  filled  with  woe; 
He  follows  fast  from  first  to  last 

Wherever  you  may  go. 
John  Barleycorn!     John  Barleycorn! 

He  rides  the  rods  oJ  sin  — 
You  pay  his  rates  to  ride  the  freights 

An    John  will  always  win!" 


109 


THE  SOFTEST  TOWN 

A  LL  o'  the  wise  guys  rube  it  now  ; 
./I      Harrer  an    seed  an   the  good  ole  plow  — 
Kickin   up  dust  an   a  deuce  o'  a  row  — 
Tut!     Tut!     Prosperity! 

Now  this  is  the  talk  that  the  Portland  Skin 
Give  me  on  towns  that  he's  bin  in — 
Steerin'   me  right  as  we  sat  by  a   tank  in   the  town  o' 

Canton,  O. 

(A  good  ole  traveler  is  Portland  Skin, 
An'  over  the  world  I  reckon  he's  bin  — 
An'  there  isn't  a  turn  or  trick  o'  the  road  that  the  Port 
land  Skin  don't  know.) 

"  Listen !  "  he  says,     "  When  you  pick  your  town, 
W'y  the  biggest  town  is  the  softest  town; 
For  the  little  towns  is  hostile  now  for  guys  like  you  an' 

me. 

Take  a  good  big  town  wit'  the  big,  wide  nights, 
Wit'  the  clang  o'  music  an'  blazin'  lights  — 
(Oh,  the  big  town  growls,  but  it  never  bites  — 
An'  there's  prosperity!  ") 

"  No  one  works  where  the  bright  lights  glare, 
An'  they're  always  studyin'  a  bill-o'-fare ; 
no 


THE     SOFTEST      TOWN 

No  one   works  but  the  orchestra  men   an'   the   taxicab 

drivers  —  see? 

It's  a  big,  fat  cinch  in  the  big  fat  towns 
Wit'  the  open  face  suits  an'  the  low-down  gowns, 
An'     they're     drinkin'     up    wine     'till     their    liver 
drowns  — 

That's  some  prosperity !  " 

This  is  the  talk  that  the  ole  time  'bo 
Give  me  on  towns  an'  he  oughta  know  — 
"  Listen!"   he   says,     "Beware   o'   towns  where   they're 

raisin'  o'  grain  an'  hay! 
Beware  o'  the  coast,  me  boy,"  he  says; 
"  All  o'  the  middle  west,"  he  says; 

"  For  they  ain't  no  suckers  out  there  no  more;   they're 
all  in  the  towns  to-day." 

"Their    night    work's    done    by    the    kerosene    lamps  — 
They've  got  no  use  for  the  ole  time  tramps  — 
The  light  o'  the  sun  is  the  time  for  work  in  the  Boob- 
Belt  country  —  see  ? 

Oh,  the  callous  grows  in  the  palm  o'  the  hand  ; 
An'    the    sweat    o'    the    brow,    y'    must    understand 
Is  the  law  o'  their  lives  an'  the  law  o'  the  land  - 
Tut!     Tut!     Prosperity!" 

"  But  no  one  works  by  electric  light 
In  the  big  soft  towns  where  it's  always  bright; 
No  one  works  but  reformin'  gents,  an'  mebbe  the  waiters 
—  see? 

in 


THE     SOFTEST      TOWN 

They's  always  a  noise  o'  brass  an'  drums  — 
From  the  uptown  snares  an'  the  downtown  slums 
An'  no  one  cares  how  the  money  comes  — 
Ain't  that  prosperity?" 

All  of  the  wise  guys  rube  it  now  — 
Harrer  an    seed  an    the  good  ole  plow; 
Crops  an'  children  —  sweat  oJ  the  brow  — 
Tut!     Tut!     Prosperity! 


112 


DISTANT  SHORES 


THE  VOICE  FROM  HOME 

SOMEONE  sticks  it  in  the  camp  kit;  someone  hope 
ful,    someone  young 

(Let  us  praise  the  Youth  who  travel  with  the  crew!) 
Someone  finds  it,  jarred  and  jumbled,  and  it's  sometimes 

shy  a  lung, 

While  its  voice  is  rather  limpish  and  askew. 
In  the  silence  of  the  forests,  rifles  stacked  and  campfires 

low; 
Bronzed   and   bearded   faces   thoughtful,   lighted   by   the 

dying   glow.. 

Dear  old   Death,   of  long  acquaintance,  browsing  some 
where  in  the  brush  — 

Comes  a  squeaky,  squawky,  squealing  elbowing  into  the 
hush  — 

"Urup!     Urup!     Br-r-r!     'Stars    and    Stripes  —  'ever' 
Played  by  Sousa's  band  —  Urup!     Br-r! 
For  the  bz-z-z-z-urup-phonograph. 

Ta-ta-ra-ra-ra-boom-ta-ratty-tat-tat !  " 

A  grinding,  gritty  galloping,  a  grumbling  at  the  bowels; 
It  speaks  of  seas  and  cities  and  of  teeming  quays  and 

boats. 
Then  changing  to  another   tune   and  mumbling  all  the 

vowels 


THE      VOICE     FROM     HOME 

It    vomits    words    that    bring    a    sob    into    unwilling 

throats. 
The  slimy  silence  slides  away;  the  campfire  fades  from 

view  ; 
The  forest  dark  is  lighted  and  old  Death  himself  slips 

through. 
The    voice    metallic   jangles    on;    the    thoughtful    faces 

yearn, 
While  the  yawping  box  leers  spiteful  as  the  feeble  records 

turn. 


"  Blup-blup-br-r-r-r-blong  —  Asthore  — 

Sung  by  the  Queen  City-br-r-quartette  — 
For  the  bz-z-z-urup-phonograph. 

Tr-r-r-The  night  winds  are  whispering-blong-brr- !  " 


Someone  sighs  a  trifle  wistful;  someone  hopeful,  someone 

young ; 

Someone  hums  in  nervous  cadence  as  a  dare. 
Someone   growls   a  trifle   roughly  as  by   quick  emotion 

stung, 

While  the  halting  needle  picks  a  silly  air. 
In  the  silence  of  the  forest,  rifles  stacked  and  campfire 

low, 

Growls  the  gibing  voice  metallic  of  the  things  we  used 
to  know. 

116 


THE      VOICE     FROM     HOME 

Oh,  it  speaks  of  home  and  dances;  of  the  jangling  city's 

stir  — 
And   it  brings  us  in  the  hushes  quiet,  holy  thoughts  of 

Her! 

"  Br-r-r-r-blung !     Br-r-Forgotten ! 

As  sung  by  Miss  Hilda-br-r-urup-Jones  — 

For  the  bz-z-z-zblong-phonograph. 
If  a  wild  wish-blong-be-r-to  see  and  to-bz-z-z-!  " 


117 


''THE  STARS  AND  STRIPES  FOREVER" 

A  SONG  OF  THE  AMERICAN  ARMY  INSTRUCTORS  IN  CHINA 

DO  you  think  we've  forgotten  the  land  we  love  in 
the  scent  o'  the  Heavenly  Court? 
Us  Exiles  who  work  for  the  Dowager  Queen  an'   rot 

in  a  Chinese  port? 
Do  you  think  that  we  soldier  for  love  o'  the  thing  or 

the  pay  that  the  Chinaman  gives  — 
(The  pay  that  we're  saving  by  living  out  here  the  way 

that  the  Chinaman  lives?) 
Why,   the  steamers   that   raft   through   the  Yellow   Sea 

can  tell  of  a  wabbly  band 
That   plays  'but   a   single   old    rollicking   air   when    the 

liners  are  drawing  to  land. 
Yes,  the  warboats  that  slide  through  the  Saffron  Mist, — 

and  their  colors  they  always  dip, — 
Can  speak  o'  a  band  making  music  so  sweet  when  the 

drum  major  yells,  "  Let  'er  rip !  " 

Do  you  think  we've  forgotten  the  land  we  love,  though 

it  seems  we've  been  making  a  trade? 
Why,  they  play  that  to  welcome  the  Royal  Guard,  and 

they  play  it  on  dress  parade. 
They  play  it  for  marching,  for  flag  salute ;  that  swinging, 

old,  ringing  old  air  — 

118 


"THE     STARS     AND     STRIPES     FOREVER" 

Not  playing  it,  maybe,  as  Sousa  had  planned,  but  the 
accent  is  soft  as  a  prayer. 

And  the  Japanese  think  and  the  Britishers  guess  that  it 
isn't  the  music  alone 

That  caused  us  to  teach  to  the  Dowager's  band  the  air 
that  we  love  as  our  own. 

It  isn't  the  "  Star  Spangled  Banner,"  they  know,  but 
they've  seen  our  Legation  marines 

Salute  with  a  cheer  to  our  pigtailed  band  that's  wonder 
ing  still  what  it  means. 

Do  you  think  we're  forgetting  the  land  we  love,  in  the 

glare  of  the  Heavenly  Court? 

Us  Exiles  who're  training  the  Dowager's  men  and  mak 
ing  them  think  that  it's  sport? 
Don't  you  think  that  the  tune  that  our  bandmen  play 

—  though  it's  weak  and  it  sounds  rather  droll  — 
Is   a   sort   of    a   crying   from    out   of   our   hearts  —  and 

an  echo  from  out  of  a  soul? 
Do  you  think  we're  forgetting  the  flag  we  love  —  who 

are  hearing  by  day  and  by  night 
The     rip-roaring,     blood-stirring     Sousa     parade     that's 

played  us  to  many  a  fight? 
Why,   the  Yellow   Flag   some    day  will    dip   and   wave 

with   the   brasses   commencing   to   roar, 
And    the    pigtails   will    swing    to    the    "  Stars    and    the 

Stripes  "  as  their  army  goes  off  to  a  war! 


119 


TOOTS  M'GANN 

A  TALE  OF  THE  CHINESE  ARMY  INSTRUCTORS 

THE  gun-flash  splits  the  morning  mist; 
The  bugles  sing  the  reveille; 
The  sullen   dawn   is  coming  on 

Across  the  hostile  Yellow  Sea. 

Up  from  the  South  marched  Toots  McGann, 
Chief  of  the  Chinese  gunners  he; 

And  green  and  gray  the  breaking  day 
Stole  on  across  the  sombre  sea. 

Out  of  the  South  swung  Toots  McGann; 

Creaking  piece  and  dumb  caisson; 
His  men  were  wet  with  marching  sweat 

As  forward  went  they  to  the  dawn. 

"  Dangers   threat,"   a  message  went 

Into  the  South  to  Toots  McGann; 

And  fast  he  rode  with  whip  and  goad  — 
Chinese  —  but  still   American! 

A  consulate  in  dire  distress; 

A  Mongol  rout  on  mischief  bent; 
A  fate  so  grim,  a  hope  so  slim, 

When  to  McGann  the  message  went. 
1 20 


TOOTS    M'GANN 

Mark  you!     A  Chinaman  was  he 

In  oath  and  act  —  he  took  their  pay; 

What  right  he  then  to  take  his  men 

And  go  him  forth  that  sombre  day? 

Mark  you!     He  took  the  Empire's  gold 
To  serve  the  Dragon  flag  full  well; 

No  right  at  all  to  heed  a  call 

Of  dire  distress,  whate'er  befell. 

The  leagured  consulate  it  heard 

The  tramp  of  men  and  voices  hoarsed; 
The  mongol  rout  set  up  a  shout, 

Not  doubting  it  was  reinforced. 

Not  doubting  Toots  McGann  had  come 
With  battery  to  shell  the  walls; 

And  at  their  cheer  the  leagured  fear 

That  God  had  failed  to  heed  their  calls. 

The  leagured  consulate  it  heard 

A  voice  that  rang  clear  as  a  bell ; 

The  clanking  guns;  an  order  runs 

Along  the  wind:  "With  shrapnel  shell!" 

A  flash,  a  flame,  a  roar  and :  "  Load !  " 
As  chaff  the  Mongol  rout  dispersed; 

They  left  their  dead  —  the  silly  dead ; 

The  soul  of  Toots  McGann  they  cursed! 
121 


TOOTS    M'GANN 

Back  to  the  South  marched  Toots  McGann; 

His  slant-eyed  men  with  hearts  of  mud. 
No  fear  he  had ;  his  soul  was  glad  — 

He  answered  to  the  call  of  blood! 

What  was  his  fate?     Ah,  few  may  say  — 
For  few  there  are  who  really  can; 

But  it  is  lore  that  never  more 

Out  of  the  South  came  Toots  McGann. 


122 


THE  YELLOW  FLAG 

LATE   o'    the    Sixteenth    'dobies,    sergeant    and    nine 
years  in; 

Now  I'm  a  cavalry  captain,  hangin'  around  Tien  Tsin. 
Me  and   McMurtie  and  Masters,  sweatin'   an  army  o' 

Chinks  ; 

Spreadin'  our  gospel  and  tactics,   teachin,  'em  'Merican 
kinks. 


Glint  o'  gold  in  the  western  sky; 
That's  my  crowd  a-marchin'  by; 
That's  my  flag  a-flappin'  there  — 
Smallpox  rag  in  the  evenin'  air; 
Leather  faces  and  crooel  eyes  — 
Hate  a-waitin'  a  chanst  to  rise! 

One  night  on  the  white  sea  shore  I  was  settin    and  half 

asleep, 
When  the  mist  rose  off  of  the  water  and  a  light  come 

over  the  deep; 
And  I  seemed  to  see  —  /  wuz  dreamin — an  army  ten 

million  strong 
That  swept  the  earth  like  a  cyclone  and  marched  to  a 

ban  gin'  gong. 

123 


THE      YELLOW     FLAG 

I  seemed  to  see  —  /  wuz  dreamin  —  a  glint  as  o'  gold 

in  the  sky 
And  I  saw   through   the   dust   the   Yellow  Flag  as   the 

army  went  swingin    by! 

Ninety-two    pigtails    behind    me,    rice-eatin',    mice-eatin' 

rooks ; 
Hi!  but  they  savvies  me  lingo  when  I  takes  'em  to  task 

wit  me  dukes. 
Ninety-two    pigtails    behind;    ho,    I'm    the    boss    o'    the 

bunch ; 
They  savvies  the  port  and  the    shoulder,  but    never  the 

'Merican  punch. 

Off  on  a  whiz  in  Manila,  Yang-Tse-Kiang  gets  us  broke; 
Hundred  and  fifty  he  offers,  all  of  us  thinks  it's  a  joke. 
Hundred  and  fifty,  commissions,  chanst  every  day  for 

to  rise  — 
Here  we  are  teachin'  the  Chinos;  same  we  wuz  taught 

to  despise! 

/  seemed  to  see  —  /  wuz  dreamin  —  the  faces  I'm  seein 

each  day; 
The  faces  I'm  knowin    as  wooden,  like  the  Joss  Gods  to 

whom  they  pray. 
But,  say!  as  I  saw  'em  —  in  dreamin  — each  face  was 

grown  hard  and  crooel  — 
And  the  eyes  lit  up  with  a  horrid  glare  as  they  marched 

to  the  'Merican  rule! 

124 


THE      YELLOW     FLAG 

They  marched  in  the  way  I've  taught  'em;  their  flags  as 

the  sunset  light  — 
And  everywhere  was  a  yellow  face,  but  never  a  sign  of 

white! 

Comrades  in  mess  to  some  Frenchmen,   Dutchmen,  and 

Japanese,   too ; 
Ho!  we're  the  bold  tactic  teachers,  puttin'  the  Chinamen 

through ! 
Sweatin'    'em,   pettin'    'em   careful;   judicious  use  o'    the 

boot  — 
Hi !  they  don't  savvy  me  lingo,  but  savvies  a  punch  in 

the  snoot! 

Think    o'    the    styles    they're    a-learnin',    fightin'    drilled 

into  their  soul  — 
Frenchy   and    Dutchy   and    English,    'Merican,    Rooshan 

and  Pole! 
Hi !  what  a  scramble  o'  scrappin',  something  like  mixin' 

your  drinks  — 
But,  say!  if  it  comes  to  a  show-down  keep  your  eye  on 

the  'Merican  Chinks! 

Since  the  night  on   the  white  sea  shore  I've   noticed  it 

time  and  again; 
The  slumbering  hate  and  the  crooel  glare  in  the  eyes  o* 

me  sleepy  men. 

125 


THE     YELLOW     FLAG 

I've  watched  'em  at  drill  and  their  pleasure  and  always 

I  see  the  glare  — 
Don't  tell  McMurtie  or  Masters,  for  they  would  say 

it  ain't  there! 
When  I  see  the  sunset  at  evenin'  as  it's  paintin  the  western 

sky, 
I   thinks   when   I  saw  —  in  my   dreamin  —  the   Yellow 

Flag  floatin    by! 

Glint  o'  gold  in  the  western  sky; 
That's  my  crowd  a-marchin'  by; 
That's  my  flag  a-flappin'  there  — 
Smallpox  rag  in  the  evenin'  air; 
Leather  faces  and  crooel  eyes  — 
Hate  a-waitin'  a  chanst  to  rise! 

I'm  showin'  'em  practice  not  theory;  I  teach  'em  to  go 

it  alone 
When  they're  out  on  the  firm'  line  fightin'  each  man  to 

think  for  his  own. 
Perhaps  they  are  backward  in  learnin'  because  they're  not 

bred  to  the  guns  — 
But  wait  'till  the  next   generation,  and  watch  it  come 

out  in  their  sons! 


126 


GHOSTS  OF  THE  DITCH 

A   SONG   OF   THE   PANAMA   CANAL 

R  ED  and  yellow ;  red  and  yellow 

Slips  the  sun  into  the  sea; 
Red  and  yellow;  red  and  yellow 

Comes  a  longing  over  me; 
Comes  a  longing  for  the  thronging 
And  the  city's  bells  ding-donging; 
Comes  a  longing,  longing,  longing, 

When  the  sun  hides  in  the  sea  — 

Red  and  yellow;  red  and  yellow 
Slips  the  sun  into  the  sea. 

You    can    hear    th'    whisperin'    voices   of    th'    Men   who 

Went  Before; 

They  are  gathered  in  th'  ditches  an'  they  number  many 
a  score; 

You  can  hear  'em  laughin',  jeerin', 
You  can  hear  'em  talkin',  sneerin', 

And  their  maddening,  mocking  music  cuts  us  clear  unto 
the  core. 

You  can  hear  'em  grabbin'   shovels,  an'   they're  turnin' 

on  th'  steam; 
They're    undoin'    all    we    done    to-day  —  you    hear    th' 

whistles  scream  — 

127 


GHOSTS      OF      THE     DITCH 

You  can  hear  the  rocks  a-rattlin' 
Like  th'  music  o'  a  Gatlin'  — 

They're  throwin'  back  what  we  took  out  an'  chokin'  up 
th'  stream! 

You  can  hear  'em  touchin'  glasses  as  they  take  a  little 

drink ; 

They're  a-pledgin'  us  for  Raw  Recruits  into  th'  Devil's 
Sink; 

You  can  hear  'em  touchin'  glasses 
As  they're  pledgin'  us  for  asses; 

An'  the  rattle  o'   their  consciences  gives  back  a  golden 
clink! 

They're   leagued   with   General    Fever,    an'    he's   leader 

o'  th'  crew; 

Old  Miser  Death   is  second,  you  can  hear  him  talkin', 
too; 

You  can  hear  'em  all  a-plannin' 
How  we're  to  have  our  pannin'  — 
An'  every  one  a  different  plan,  but  any  plan  will  do! 

They're  a-dryin'  up  th'  oil  cups  an'  they're  pluggin'  up 

the  wheels, 

(You  will  notice  it  to-morrow  when  you  hear  the  en 
gine's  squeals;) 

You  will  hear  th'  voices  moanin' 
When  th'  engine  starts  to    groanin', 
For  they're  getting  their  gaunt  voices  tangled  in  th'  en 
gine  wheels. 

128 


GHOSTS     OF      THE     DITCH 

They  haven't  got  a  single  cheer  for  Us — the  Men  Be 
hind — 

You  only  hear  'em  tellin'  how  we're  deaf,  an'  dumb,  an' 
blind; 

In  our  footsteps  they  a-flockin', 
But  you  only  hear  'em  mockin', 

They  haven't  got  a  word  o'  praise  nor  even  a  thought 
that's  kind! 

You  can  hear  th'  jeerin'  voices  o'  the  Men  Who  Went 

Before; 

Th'   movements   o'   the   Men    Behind    excites   'em   to   a 
roar; 

And  the  wind  in  ghostly  voice 
Pitches  high  as  they  rejoice 

When  some  one  drops  a  shovel  an'  goes  knockin'  at  their 
door! 

They  hover  at  our  elbows  as  we  shove  The  Job  along — 
A-swingin'   to    our   coat    tails   as    they   try    to    guide    us 
wrong — 

Who  dares  to  think  o'  stoppin'— 
Who  stops  to  think  o'  droppin'— 

Th'  Strong  will  stay,  th'  Weak  will  go  back  home  where 
they  belong! 

Red  and  yellow;  red  and  yellow 
Comes  the  cheerful  morning  light; 
129 


GHOSTS     OF     THE     DITCH 

Red  and  yellow;  red  and  yellow 
Goes  the  sullen,  hostile  night; 
And  the  coolies  are  awaking — 
Work !    Before  the  sun  is  baking — 
Ha!    Who  talks  of  courage  shaking 
With  the  cheerful  morning  light? 

Red  and  yellow;  red  and  yellow 
Come  the  soothing  morning  light! 


130 


w 


HOMEWARD  BOUND 

E  have  left  our    battered  morals  in  th'   Harbor  o' 

Despair, 
An'  we're  sailin'  'cross  th'  water  headed  for  th'  Port 

o'  Hope; 
We  have  cleared  th'  gloomy  headlands  that  have  marked 

th'  Cape  o'  Care, 

An'  we've  washed  our  bloomin'  conscience  with  th' 
Soon-Forgotten  soap! 

We  have  lost  th'  Blues  behind  us;  there's  a  smile  upon 

each  face ; 
We  have  dropped  th'  Homesick  Longin'  in  th'  tide 

which  flows  behind; 
We  have  left  our  Debts  an'  Creditors  to  them  as  lost  th' 

race, 

An'  we're  drivin'  'cross  th'  waters  to  th'  Land  o' 
Never  Mind! 

Th'   Lights  o'    Home!     We   see   'em  burnin'   clear   an' 

bright  ahead, 
An'    our   hearts   are   singin'   gaily   as  we   climb   th' 

ocean's  slope; 
We  have  left  our  Cares  an'  Carin'  to  be  buried  with  our 

dead  — 

An'   we've  washed   our  bloomin'   conscience   in   th' 
Soon-Forgotten  soap! 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


M,ay  1  o  1969  5  ? 

JAN   £  1936 

fEB    17  1936 

APR28'8q.i2M 

TC     l*i 

odL      5  1S37 

UOA.N  DEPT. 

SEP  2  5  2005 

* 

OCT9W 

^ 

JAN  J^7 

IN  PODTAl 

-//\L 

1  £k 

^nier  1  A  \95^ 

J^C  1  ^  ^ 

LD  21-100?n-7,'33 

251151 


